by Liam Brown
‘I’m still looking. Things have been tough, you know? It’s a difficult climate out there for everyone. But I’ve used the time constructively. I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve made some big decisions.’
Tamara slammed a mug down so abruptly that a black wave of instant coffee sloshed onto the kitchen surface. ‘Look, there’s something you should know,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing someone.’
I tried to speak, but the words snagged in my throat, coming out somewhere between a growl and a cough.
‘You don’t know him,’ she continued. ‘He’s my age. He works in IT. It’s only been a few weeks but, well, it’s serious.’
‘But…’ I said, still choking. ‘But…’
‘Oh, fuck off, Adam. You can hardly talk. We were never exactly exclusive.’
Bile flooded my mouth. I swallowed hard. It was time to lay my cards on the table. ‘Listen, Tammy. I’m happy that you’ve met some kid. Really, I am. You deserve all the happiness you can get. But I’m in a bit of a spot. If I could just crash here for a couple of nights until I’m back on my feet. A week max…’
Tamara’s eyes flashed from pity to rage. ‘So that’s it? You have an argument with your bitch wife and you think you can just turn up here and stay? Did I miss the “Vacancy” sign out the front?’
‘No, of course not. It’s not like that. I wanted to see you…’
‘Well, I don’t want to see you. Not ever.’
I took a step towards her but she backed away. And that’s when I saw it. Mixed in with the anger was fear. She was scared of me. Of what I might do. And without another word, I walked away.
As I reached the front door I turned. Tamara hadn’t followed me into the hall. I opened the door, then paused. Slung over a coat peg was a handbag. Black. Expensive. I recognised it as Tamara’s. In one fluid motion my hand dipped inside and fished out a purse, rifling through it to pluck a small bundle of notes. I let the purse drop back into the bag and then I was gone, a thief dissolving into the night.
*
It was past three by the time I arrived at the casino. Not that it really mattered. Time was irrelevant in these places. Actually, they deliberately tried to keep it from you. No windows, no clocks, no TV screens. Nothing to distract you from the serious business of losing money. I didn’t have any ID, but fortunately the bouncer recognised me. He waved me through with a threat that I was to split my winnings with him. ‘No problem-o,’ I said. ‘Just make sure you’ve got a wheelbarrow handy to carry it all home.’
Ho-ho-ho.
Once inside I went immediately to the roulette table. I’d taken six twenty pound notes from Tamara. Without hesitating, I put the lot on red.
Then I waited for the ball to drop.
*
Now some people will tell you that there’s an art to roulette. They’ll bore you half to death with their systems and strategies for beating the house. They’ll insist that by sticking to the outside or by covering the middle and high numbers you can actually tip the odds in your favour. They’ll advise you to double your stake every time you lose, or remind you to listen to the table for any irregular rattles that might imply a defection of the ball run. Or to watch the wheel for tilts or wobbles. Oh, and to always, always, always pick a European table over an American, so help you God. But these people are deluded. In truth, they have no more of an advantage than the old boy who picks out his grandkids’ ages divided by the number of times he’s beaten cancer. No, when it comes to roulette, there’s no place for either science or superstition. It is the tossing of a coin, the throwing of dice. You are in thrall to the awesome forces of chaos. Which is precisely what makes it so irresistible.
‘No more bets please.’
I watched as the wheel began to spin, the numbers blending to a blur of red and black before the dealer shot the little white ball into orbit. Nine, ten, eleven times it circumnavigated the rim before it gradually began to slow. My body throbbed with anticipation. The buzz was better than sex, better than drink, better than any drug. I held my breath until the centrifugal force acting on the ball abruptly lost its battle against gravity, watching as it was spat with a clatter into the waiting slot. I turned to the dealer for confirmation.
‘Red, Nine.’
*
In less than an hour I had five thousand pounds worth of chips stacked on the table. Twenty minutes later it was more like fifteen thousand. A waitress appeared from nowhere, ferrying a constant stream of complimentary vodka tonics from the bar to my waiting hand, while a Ray-Ban-wearing manager hovered nearby, muttering darkly into a flesh-coloured earpiece. Every half an hour or so he would stride through the small crowd that had gathered around me and make a big show of ordering a change of dealer. But my luck held, regardless of who was spinning the wheel. Red, black, odd, even, I picked my bets at random, gambling with the confidence and complacency of someone unconcerned with petty human concepts such as winning or losing. I was operating on a higher frequency, in communion with the gods of chance and alcohol. It was the greatest streak of my life.
And then I began to lose.
I doubled down, trying to recoup my losses, but it was too late. By six in the morning I was down to my last thousand. By quarter past I had just two hundred left. The free drinks dried up. The crowd drifted away. The manager was nowhere to be seen. I placed my final bet. Everything bar one red chip.
‘No more bets please.’
There was a small metallic chink as the ball came to rest, like the final nail being driven into a coffin. It was the loneliest sound in the world.
*
It was light when I got outside, the streets already filled with the first commuters of the day. They were business people mostly, the new plates of their company cars glinting in the breaking dawn. I wished nothing but pain and misery on each and every one that passed.
I still didn’t have a coat, and even with the dozen or so vodka tonics inside me the wind was biting. I slipped into an alley and bumped the last of the coke – or whatever it was – from the back of my wrist, rubbing the plastic film around my gums afterwards. Then I carried on walking.
The morning edged on and my head began to hurt. My thoughts turned to Lydia and the kids. A couple of years ago I read about a salesman who’d hung himself in the building opposite ours. The paper explained how he’d broken into the office at night and locked himself in a janitor’s cupboard. As it happened, the maintenance staff were in some sort of contractual dispute with the owners of the building at this time, and as a result his body lay undiscovered for over a fortnight. Now, this guy was married with three children, and so naturally the police wanted to know why nobody had raised the alarm to say he was missing. When they interviewed the wife, she explained how her husband had been working really hard lately – she’d just assumed he’d been putting in some extra overtime.
As I shuffled along the early morning streets I wondered how long it would take before my family realised that I’d left them. Aside from the school run, how much of a contribution did I really make to their lives? If it wasn’t for that, they might not notice I’d gone at all.
After a while, steel shutters began to yawn open all around me as harassed-looking shopkeepers started to prepare for another day. I slipped into the first grocery store I passed and, with my final twenty pounds in the world, bought the biggest, cheapest, nastiest bottle of vodka I could afford. I cracked it open before I’d even left the shop.
From there on things became a little jumbled. With no more drugs to straighten me out, the booze dug its claws in, dragging me in staggered zigzags across the pavement. Car horns blared. School kids crossed the road to avoid me. The world became a stuttering mass of colour and confusion, punctuated by great black manholes that my memory simply refused to record. One minute I was vomiting a pool of bright red bile onto the steps of a library, the next I was lying on my back on the fringes of an old industrial estate. It was like teleporting from one nightmare to the next, the bottle acting as my deme
nted tour guide.
Eventually I became aware of a stillness around me. I opened my eyes to find myself sitting on a rusted metal bench in some kind of field. It almost looked familiar, but I was too bent out of shape to make sense of it. It was nice though, the hard angles of the city replaced by soft green curves. I put the bottle to my lips and tipped back my head.
*
Hours passed. Or perhaps they didn’t – it’s difficult to tell. All I know is that at some point I became aware I was lying on the ground. Scattered around me were the crystalline fragments of a broken bottle, sparkling in light of the dying day. They were beautiful. I reached out to pluck a shard from the gravel, pulling my hand back in pain. A single drop of blood clung to the end of my finger. I pressed it to my lips and sucked. It tasted of salt and rust. I reached out my hand again.
This time I grasped the stubby neck of the bottle and held it to the light. I saw the world distorted through it, a vague smear of brown and green, and was suddenly aware of how drunk I was. So this was what the bottom looked like. I felt the weight of absence crush the wind from my chest. No job, no home, no family. No options. Everything was broken and dirty and destroyed.
And yet for all discord and dismay, one thing was suddenly blindingly clear. I won’t call it a moment of clarity – my mind was far too sodden with vodka for that – but it was nevertheless a moment of decisiveness. Out of the haze emerged a plan. A way out. An exit strategy. I seized it without a second thought.
I took the broken bottle neck.
And dug it into the worm-like veins of my wrist.
I watched in fascination as my flesh ruptured, a crimson geyser erupting from the wound. I pulled back the glass. And then did it again.
And again.
Until I disappeared.
*
The best thing about being dead is that you are instantly absolved of all feelings of guilt and remorse. In fact, you are instantly absolved of all feelings full stop. There is nothing. Less than nothing. No hangovers. No to-do lists. No missed calls. You and everything you have ever worried about instantly cease to exist. And that’s the way it’s going to stay for ever and ever and ever. The end.
It’s fucking great.
The only problem was, I wasn’t dead. Not really. Because as I lay there – thinking nothing, feeling nothing, being nothing – I gradually became aware of a tugging sensation, as if someone was shaking me.
And then, before I had time to try and decipher what the sensation could mean, I heard a voice, calling to me from the darkness.
‘Wakey-wakey,’ it said. ‘You’ve been a silly boy, haven’t you, son?’
SPRING
FIVE
Father Christmas was trying to kill me. That was my only thought as I hurled myself from the bench and attempted to scramble through the dirt to safety. The man launched himself at me, straddling my torso, his features lost among a mass of thick white beard.
‘Now, you just wait there a minute,’ he said, shifting his bulk backwards so as to pin my legs to the floor.
I continued to thrash, my fists swatting pathetically at him as I attempted to free myself. It was no good though. He was too heavy. My arms grew heavy as I strained to get a better look at my assailant. It was still dark, and difficult to make out much apart from an enormous belly, which bulged grotesquely beneath the folds of his filthy red coat.
After a minute or so the adrenalin began to ebb away and I stopped fighting altogether. A jumble of fractured memories tumbled through my mind. The cold night, the abandoned park, a broken bottle of vodka. I raised my hands to my face and saw the jagged brown crust of dry blood around my wrist.
‘Nasty,’ said the man. ‘Looks like you could do with a stitch or two in that.’
As he shifted his weight I was hit by the rich, meaty tang of his body odour, causing my stomach to churn evermore queasily. Before I could attempt to wriggle free, however, I became aware of a rustling close by. I turned my head to see a monstrous German Shepherd darting from the bushes and bolting towards me, fangs bared, ready to rip out my throat.
I screamed, though the sound that came out of my mouth was little more than a dry croak. This seemed to amuse the man immensely, and he roared with laughter as he placed an arm around the dog’s neck and jerked him away from me. ‘Oi! You big lump, Bruno. I don’t think he wants you puffin’ and pantin’ your stinkin’ breath all over him, do you?’
‘Get off me!’ I said, finally finding my voice. ‘I mean it. Get the fuck away from me!’
The man stopped laughing. ‘I’ll get off you when I’m good and ready, sonny,’ he said. ‘But first off I need to make sure you’re not going to do anythin’ you’ll end up regrettin’. Or rather I need to make sure you don’t do anythin’ I’ll end up regrettin’. If you catch my drift…’
For a moment I thought about struggling again, but I knew it was hopeless. I felt weak, the first merciless thumps of a hangover threatening to stave in my skull. I looked from the man to the dog, and gave a small, painful nod before collapsing backwards in submission.
This seemed to be precisely the signal he’d been waiting for, and before I knew what was happening he’d eased his weight off me and yanked me to my feet.
‘There we go. That’s better, isn’t it? Now, before we go any further down the wrong path, why don’t I fix you up with a nice brew? You look like you could do with one, if you don’t mind me sayin’. And while that’s doin’ I can see about cleanin’ up that cut.’ He grinned broadly and stuck out a huge, paw-like hand. ‘I’m Rusty, by the way. And this here’s Bruno. We’re very pleased to meet you.’
Over the next ten minutes or so, I sat and watched as ‘Rusty’ built a fire while the dog lay dozing at my feet, lifting his head to bark a gruff warning every time I crossed or uncrossed my legs. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the light, I could see the man’s beard was not quite as Santa-esque as I’d initially thought. While bushy enough to conceal his entire neck, up close I could see it was actually dirty grey rather than white, and seemed to be orange at the tip, as if dipped in paint. His forehead and cheeks, meanwhile, were as brown and weathered as a cracked leather purse, with deep creases etched around his watery eyes.
Once Rusty had built a sturdy-looking teepee of twigs, he held a match to the kindling, fanning the flames until they licked at the larger branches he’d placed on top. When it was crackling without assistance he disappeared into the trees behind us. Moments later he returned with a Y-shaped log, which he drove into the ground at an angle, so that it jutted out over the fire.
‘Right-o, I’ll get the kettle on,’ he said as he reached into one of the many pockets in his jacket and produced a small, stainless-steel bucket with a loop on the end. He hooked it over the branch, rummaged around again, and then took out another container, this one a dented silver flask with a cork stopper jammed into the top. As he held it up, I noticed the inscription on the side: Ultimate Sales Jedi 2008…
‘Found this one just yesterday.’ Rusty said when he caught me staring. ‘The things people throw away, huh? Nothin’ but water in here now you’ll be sad to hear.’ He pulled out the makeshift cork and poured liquid into the bucket with a sharp hiss.
‘Right then,’ he said once he’d tucked the empty flask back into his coat. ‘We’ll give that a few minutes to boil and we’ll be cookin’ with gas – or should that be wood?’ He let out another hearty laugh.
‘Be quicker with gas, that’s for sure.’
‘Ah-ha. But then I’d have to worry ’bout my gas runnin’ out, wouldn’t I? Anyway, in case you haven’t noticed we ain’t exactly short on wood round these parts. Use what you got, that’s what I say. Besides, you got somewhere better to be? Some urgent business meetin’ perhaps, Mr Fancy Pants?’
I glanced down at my ruined clothes and shook my head. I didn’t have anywhere to be.
‘Well then. We can just sit here and enjoy the fire, can’t we? You look like you could use a bit of heatin’ up anyway.’
‘There you are. Nothin’ a good fire won’t fix,’ Rusty said, oblivious to my distaste for his personal hygiene. ‘Out in just your shirt? Catch your bleedin’ death if you’re not careful. Although from the look of things, that’s the point, isn’t it? Must’ve lost about a pint and a half of blood there. Plus, you stink of booze you do! Here, don’t sit too close – you’ll go up like a bleedin’ can of petrol!’
I didn’t say anything. The heat from the fire had made my wrists sting, and they pulsed in time to the spasms of nausea in my gut.
‘Not that I’ve got a problem with suicide,’ Rusty continued. ‘Nope, I’m a big fan. Only way to protect the species, if you ask me. Too many of us as it is, using up all the food and dirtyin’ up the air, without worryin’ about people who don’t even want to be here. And it’s only goin’ to get worse. No wonder they’re plannin’ to send a man to Mars. Only place that’ll have enough room for us all pretty soon. No, if people want to kill themselves, that’s fine by me. Hell, if I was the Prime Minister I’d put a bloody suicide machine on every corner. Press a button and that’s it. Lights off. Quick and painless. Goodnight, Vienna!’ He got up to poke the fire, still chuckling to himself. ‘Only thing is, you can’t do it here.’
‘Huh?’
‘Kill yourself, like. You can’t do it here in the park. If there’s a dead body, the police’ll come sniffing around and then… Well, it’ll just be a big headache for everyone involved. ’Course you’re welcome to do it outside the park. There’s a nice secluded spot over by the railway lines. I can show you, if you like?’
‘Look, I’m not going to kill myself, okay? I just had a little too much to drink and things… Things got out of control.’
Rusty grinned. ‘Well, that’s fine and dandy too. Glad to hear it. Whoops, looks like that water’s finally boiled.’
