‘One pick-me-up coming up,’ she said, and using a small ladle, she dropped a couple of ounces onto a silver coaster.
While my host hacked away, I browsed around the room, ending up at a collection of picture frames lying on top of the piano. Almost every one showed a bearded man with his arms draped around some of the most iconic performers from the last thirty years of popular music.
‘Is this guy your husband?’
Demeter didn’t need to look up to know who I was referring to. ‘When it suits him.’
‘He’s quite the mover and shaker. Where is he now?’
‘I have absolutely no idea and to be entirely candid, I’ve long since ceased caring.’
I looked back at the pictures. She might have lost interest, but I was fascinated. A lot of these people were my heroes. In one of the pictures, I noticed a younger version of Demeter standing among a group of musicians. The hair was bigger and she wore much stronger shades of makeup, but I recognised her immediately.
‘Hey, that’s you,’ I said, sounding utterly idiotic. ‘Were you in…?’
That band I can’t remember the name of.
‘I used to be,’ she said. ‘A very long time ago, before a lot of things happened.’
I’m star-struck. ‘Y’know, I knew I’d seen your face before.’
Demeter didn’t reply. She lowered her head over the coaster and snatched it across in two sharp movements.
‘That is so cool. I mean, you guys were huge back in the day. I even remember having a few of your records when I was a kid.’
She whipped her head back and straightened her hair.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ she said, pinching her nostrils.
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t stop it from stinging.’
‘So why did you split up? Creative differences?’
‘You could call it that.’ She drummed her fingers uneasily against the leather sofa and got to her feet. ‘Like a lot of things in life, it got a little stale in the end.’
‘Stale?’ I laughed in disbelief. ‘Who ever heard of the sex, drugs and rock and roll lifestyle becoming stale?’
That was it for Demeter. Her patience wore through. ‘Look, if you really want to know, my so-called husband screwed the entire band out of a five-record deal on a rival label by offering our lead singer a solo contract. A contract that he then proceeded to renege on, though not before he’d ruined the poor woman’s career.’ She waved at the two lines of cocaine on the table.
‘Now, are you going to gun this down or are we going to stand here and have a history lesson all night.’
We stared at each other for a few moments before I replied. ‘You want to know the reason why I’ve not contacted anyone? Why I walked away from my life? Well, that’s it, right there: the staleness.’
Demeter’s face mellowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean it had lost its flavour. My life had become one long chore, a never-ending sequence of diary entries and deadlines. It was like a saucepan of over-boiled vegetables, nothing but mush. And that’s all I was, nothing more than a trained vegetable.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘I remember how I used to feel when I was a teenager. There was this constant feeling of longing. I wanted life to start. I wanted to get on with it, to get out there and start doing whatever it was that I was meant to do. Only problem was, when the time finally came, I didn’t know what it was.’
Demeter looked up at me. ’Don’t beat yourself up, we’re all the same. It’s all just bloody luck in the end.’
I was on such a roll that I never even bothered to laugh.
’Dumb luck. Yeah, I know. But the problem occurs one day when someone dies and you suddenly get the chance to reflect. It’s only then that you realise it’s too late, that you’re already living the life you were meant to live. The worst part is when you try to deny that it’s not what you expected it to be. You try to kid yourself that you can still do what you want to, but deep down you know that you can’t. By then it’s too late. And that’s the worst part of it. It’s like… like…’
‘…like there’s nothing left to discover.’ Demeter said earnestly.
‘Exactly! That’s exactly what it is. There’s nothing left to discover.’ I pointed to the speakers. ‘Deep down, you know that you’ll never listen to classic records like these with the same intensity; that you’ll never again choke on that first nip of whiskey; or feel the ache of your first love, and that scared the shit out of me.’
‘And so, what? You killed yourself so that you could live again?’
I nodded. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And has it worked? Have you found the excitement that you were craving?’
‘A bit too much,’ I replied pensively, and drained my drink.
I held out my hand to take Demeter’s empty glass to the bar, but she had other ideas. Mistaking my gesture for an advance, she caught hold of my arm and pulled me into her.
We embraced, and for a brief moment I was swept away with the spontaneity of the contact. But the more she writhed and stroked, the stranger it became. It felt wrong. She felt wrong. Demeter soon sensed that and pulled back.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ I looked away, ashamed. I’d never cheated on Katharine before.
‘I can’t,’ I said.
Demeter turned away from me and collapsed onto the sofa, her knees tucked together like a teenagers.
‘You’re a hell of a date, you know that?’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘Why don’t you have some coke, maybe it’ll loosen you up a little.’
Not wishing to offend my host, I promptly cleared away the two rails that she’d laid down for me. Then I joined her on the sofa.
We talked for a while, about music mostly, pausing every now and then for more cocaine, but Demeter’s appetite soon outpaced mine and after a couple more lines I left her to it. At first she was good company, but her mood took a change for the worse when she left the room to take a phone call. I could hear shouting and when she came back her face was murder.
‘Everything alright?’ I asked. I was admiring the photographs on the piano again and felt obliged to say something.
‘Nothing that I couldn’t fix with a length of rope and a paring knife.’ She lowered her head over the coffee table again.
While she was away, one picture in particular had aroused my interest. It was tucked away behind all of the others, its small glass frame covered in fingerprints, and showed a Demeter of probably ten years ago standing with a young girl, no older than four, at her side. In an effort to lighten the mood I held it up.
‘Nice looking kid.’
Demeter looked up. When she saw what was in my hand she flew at me and snatched the frame away.
‘Don’t you touch that,’ she cried, suddenly close to tears. ‘Don’t you ever touch her, you leave my baby alone.’
Clutching the picture to her breast, she limped back and perched on the edge of the sofa. She sat hunched forward, as though someone had just punched her in the stomach. I glanced at the open doorway.
‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘You can do what the hell you want.’ She began to moan quietly.
‘I have a daughter, you know?’
I was hoping the comment would demonstrate empathy. Instead, Demeter looked up at me, astonished.
‘You have a little girl?’
I nodded to the picture. ‘She’s about the same age as her.’
‘And you–?’ Demeter turned her face away from me. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ she said, reproachfully. ‘There’s not one of you bastards that does. You’re all the fucking same.’
There wasn’t anything I could say to that. I watched her rock forward and back a few times more and then made for the exit. The mood was spoiled. Best if I just left. I was a few steps from the door when Demeter spoke again. This time the venom in her voice was paralysing.
‘S
o what now? You walking out on me as well?’
‘No, I–’
‘Don’t you even fucking think about leaving. I swear, if you walk out of that door, I’ll call the police, you hear me?’
I closed my eyes. Did I really have the energy for another chase?
‘I’m not leaving,’ I replied. ‘I was just going to use the toilet,’
‘Were you? Well, don’t you think you should find out where it is first?’
She had me there.
‘It’s the second door on the right,’ she said, picking up another of the chrome orbs. ‘And don’t be too long gone, I haven’t finished with you yet.’
I gave it ten minutes or so to let the dust settle and then padded back. I was a little way along the landing when the smell hit me, like rotten vinegar. It made my stomach twist.
Thinking that something was alight, I rushed into the room, only to find Demeter sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa, the large orb open by her side along with a blackened spoon and syringe.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I said, unable to take my eyes from the blackish brown liquid. It looked the way I imagined death ought to.
Demeter was tying a red silken band around her bicep.
‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ she replied, sounding as confident as she had when I first met her. ‘If you want to leave, then leave. I won’t call the police.’ There was a wry smile. ‘I don’t think I’m in any position to be threatening you with the authorities somehow.’
I took a step forward, even though I was afraid to go too close.
‘Seriously, Demeter, this is not good. You need to think about this very carefully.’
‘Relax, Felix. Would you relax? I do this all the time.’ I could see from the speckled contusion, which her glove had been covering, that she did.
‘Yeah, maybe you do, but do you know how much cocaine you’ve–?’
She held up a hand to silence me. ‘Have you ever heard this suite, Felix?’
In my absence, The Dark Side of the Moon had finished and now there was a slow, menacing piece of classical music playing in the background. I shook my head.
‘I chose it especially,’ she said. ‘Rachmaninov’s opus 29. A wonderful work, you’d adore it.’
‘Would I?’ I was trying to think of a way to stall her.
‘Yes, you would. I know you would because we’re very much alike, you and I.’
‘You think so? How?’
‘Have you ever tried heroin, Felix?’
I looked away. The rain beat against the windows.
‘You should,’ Demeter whispered seductively, ‘You should experience it at least once before you die, and it just so happens that I’ve prepared two shots.’ She produced a second syringe from her side.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t consider it. With nowhere left to go and a body on the edge of total ruin, the escape she was offering made complete sense. But there was something still alive in me, some survival reflex that I hadn’t burnt out over the last forty-eight hours, which compelled my head to shake.
‘Suit yourself,’ Demeter said indifferently, and placed the needle to her arm.
‘Wait!’ I cried, taking a step closer. ‘Do you really have to do this now? Can it not wait?’
Demeter looked up at me, the wells of her eyes close to overflowing.
‘No. It cannot.’
‘Why? I mean, why are you doing this anyway?’
‘Why?’ Her thin smile remained but the dam was broken, releasing tears down onto her scarlet lips. ‘I would’ve thought that was obvious, Felix. I’m doing it for the same reason that you walked away from that plane crash.’
And with that she sank the plunger deep, deep, deep into her arm.
I covered my mouth. Knelt beside her.
‘Stay with me, ple–’ she started to say, but the appeal went unfinished. At that moment, the junk kicked into her bloodstream, her eyes rolled back and she tapered off into oblivion.
I watched her for a while, the tumbling music somehow mirroring my predicament. Then, when I was sure her breathing was more or less regular, I poured myself another drink, hoovered the remaining powder from the coffee table and sat nearby to continue my vigil.
The rich strings eased away.
An hour or so and it would be safe to leave.
Ease away.
Safe to go.
Away.
*
Brakes screech. My mind tightens.
On and on. The squeal. Rubber on asphalt.
I’m waiting for the impact. The crunch. Metal meets metal. Tinkling of glass.
Or worse still. The thud of a body.
‘No, no, no,’ comes the squeal. The shriek.
Burning rubber on asphalt.
They can’t slide forever.
Sooner or later they’ll have to hit something.
Oh, there you go.
And again.
And again.
And again.
*
The music’s gone. Must’ve broken the car radio.
‘What have you done?’ the other driver asks.
‘Mmm?’
‘Look what you’ve done.’
He reverses. Hits me again.
*
Screeching’s gone. Ringing now.
I’m lying down. It’s damp. Wet.
When I open my eyes I can’t see.
Blood.
Smoke.
Face feels swollen and torn. Windscreen. Must’ve gone through the windscreen. Head searing. Must be wide open.
Ringing.
Crying.
One arm’s dead. I use the other to pick myself up. Ignore the broken glass sticking into my palm. There’s no pain. No pain.
Hold on. Something’s wrong. Something feels wrong.
Carpet.
How many car accidents occur on carpet?
Force the light through. The world splits. Head splits.
A voice. The other driver.
'Hello? Hello?' He’s struggling to hide his agitation. 'Yes, hello? Yes. Ambulance. Quickly.’
Help. That’s it! Get help. Quick.
‘I’ve just returned home,’ he says, ‘there are two people overdosing in my home. They’re dying.'
What? Dying? I’m not dying.
'Yes... one’s my wife... I don't know the other. Look I don't know.'
I try to say something. Mumbles come out.
‘Come quickly, we’re at…’
Address. Appeal. A blow to the head.
The phone call is over.
'Shut the fuck up,' the man says. 'I haven't finished with you yet.' He has an American accent. Sobs occasionally. In between growls.
I wipe my slippery face. Squint. Blood dotted all around.
Prop myself up. This time I feel the glass beneath my hand. I look down and cry out. Not from pain, from the realization that the sharp point embedded in my palm is actually the broken root of a tooth.
My tooth.
In bewildered disbelief, I roll my tongue around in search of the cavity, spilling a thick swab of blood onto my chin.
Hear plastic on enamel, then my arm is wrenched forwards. Wrists lifted to the sky.
I look up at him, his perfect teeth gritted through his well-trimmed beard, the spare hypodermic wedged in between them like some kind of bullet catching circus act.
‘Wh– y’doin’?’ I ask. It brings another backhander.
The room goes still.
Is that a sting?
My mouth falls open.
I’m drowning in warm amber.
More.
Blood turns to honey.
Want more.
I convulse. Beard curses. Kicks me in the thigh.
No matter. Drop a fridge on me if you want. I just lost two of my senses.
One slides back. I see the beard holding a pointless syringe. Looks almost full, which means that that was just a taster.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, �
�I know where she keeps the spares.’
Fuck.
The film falls off the spool. It takes the projectionist upstairs a moment to line it back up again and when he does the beard’s on his way out for a fresh needle.
Think. Think. Think.
A thick liquid falls out of me when I try to stand up.
Hope there’s vomit in there somewhere.
Upright, though surfing not standing. And I’m in the middle of a hurricane.
Steady, steady, steady, steady, steady, steady, steady, steady.
Body down there. White body.
Don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t look.
Pale. Dying. Body.
Stomach knots again. Choke it. Choke it back.
Get out must get out must out get out out.
Door’s a hundred yards away and I’m in a fucking house of horrors, all fairground spirals and rolling floorboards.
Focus on the door, Felix, focus on the door.
Slide along the walls and onto the landing
Steady.
Soft carpet. Soft. Warm. Brown.
Brown.
Steady.
Stairs a tumbling stack of never ending stairs a tumbling...
…tumbling
…tumbling
…tumbling
Something breaks the fall at the bottom. I feel the cold glass of the marble floor.
There’s fur in my hand. No, not fur, beard!
Grip it and lift it and smash it and smash it and smash it, then up and on and at the door and scratch and twist the latch and turn the handle and ignore the groans and the movement and the growling and...
Cold wind lashes against my blood-wet skin. Provides me with a moment of clarity. I grab my coat from the stand and follow the rain’s example. Pelt outside.
Spare a glimpse back. Beard is on his feet. He’s on the pavement, all threats and tears and makes to chase, but when the ambulance appears at the end of the street he gives in. Flags it down.
I keep on. Somehow.
At the end of the street a pair of fat taillights are waiting. I slam into the driver’s door and slap the already blackened window about a bit.
‘Hell me.’
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 32
