by Terry Taylor
“What’s that?”
“He sells it.”
This nearly knocked me out. “You mean he’s a dope pedlar?”
She really did laugh this time; a hearty laugh that echoed around the room. “Don’t let’s get dramatic,” she managed to say. “Dope pedlars are people that you read about in Life magazine. It’s nothing as serious, or come to that, important. He just supplies us with our little smoke when we want it. Why don’t you try? It’ll turn you on, and you never know, it may wig you.”
Dusty Miller came over to us, his eyes full of interest. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked me in a friendly way.
“I certainly am,” I told him truthfully. “You have some great records there,” I said, pointing to the box.
“You like Jazz then?”
“It’s the only sound for me,” I said in my sharpest voice.
“Nice. We’ll have to have a rabbit about it some time. There’s not much happening in Town — not like the old days — so we have to make our own amusement. We have these little get-togethers all the time. We take it in turns for whose pad we use. You have your own pad?”
“No. I live with my parents,” I said quietly.
“That’s a drag,” he said. “I pity you.”
I felt I could talk freely with him. “It’s not so bad living with them. It’s where we live that bothers me. Middlesex.”
“Oh fuck, that’s worse than the sticks. You have my sympathy.”
We were interrupted by Danny. “Ready, Dust,” he shouted from across the room. “I’ve made six spliffs up.”
“Fine,” Dusty shouted back to him. Then he made an announcement to the whole room, sounding like an eccentric millionaire: “The first one’s on me, people. Danny’s here to accommodate you if you want more.”
Miss Roach pulled me to one side. “Stay by me, sweetie. It’s best not to let the others know that you don’t smoke. I’ll give you a crafty draw on mine.”
Dusty came around the room distributing the spliffs to the various groups that were ligging about. He came over to us and gave Miss Roach one, which looked longer and thicker than the usual cigarette.
Everyone seemed to light up at the same time, but before they did they closed all the windows and Miss Roach informed me, like an expert, that this was to stop the smoke escaping, as the smoky atmosphere helps your highness. A few seconds later the room was full of a smell that I’d never come across before. It was something like the stink of Turkish cigarettes, only more so. Then I saw Miss Roach inhaling deeply on hers; concentrating like mad — everything else kicked out of her mind — finding room for only the thing that she held between her fingers. When she drew on it she closed her eyes, and she gave out a weird sound when she inhaled; she took as much air down with the smoke as she possibly could, and the hissing of the air hitting her teeth reminded me of the noise that steam trains sometimes make when they are standing in a station.
“That’s better,” she said quietly. “Now it’s your turn.”
She noticed the uncertain look upon my face. “Don’t be ’fraid,” she went on, “it’s not going to kill you.”
Without thinking I took the spliff between my fingers and drew on it. “Not like that,” Miss Roach instructed. “Take it right in, as deep down as it can go and keep it in, that’s the main thing. When you’ve had a blow, don’t let it go, but keep breathing in air to send it right downstairs to the bargain basement.”
I did what I was told. It didn’t taste half as bad as I thought it would. In fact it was quite pleasant. It went down a lot easier than tobacco would, and before long I was inhaling hungrily at it.
“Not too much for the first time. We don’t want you cracking up,” Miss Roach said, taking it away from me.
I wasn’t concerned with her voice, because already I’d realised I was feeling different. Everything was happening so quickly. At first I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. Then it came to me that the scene was going out of focus like it does on the tele when you turn the wrong knob. But not everything. Some of the scene was still as clear, in fact, sharper, but the rest was in a fog. Certain things stood out in the room like they had a searchlight trained on them — Miss Roach — the spliffs — the clock on the mantelpiece — but most of the other things weren’t bright at all. My heart was breaking the speed limit — thumping away like mad it was, and I felt hot although the sweat on my forehead was icy cold. Then the scene became terribly unreal, and it frightened me. The people’s voices seemed far away, and the smoky atmosphere wasn’t helping things, either. So this is what it was like to be high, my mind kept telling me. It’s different to what I read in the Sunday newspapers. I should be flying high and feeling wonderful and sexy and all nice things, but the things that I was feeling weren’t nice; they were dream-like and I was afraid to go deeper into it — I was fighting but it was no use. They were unreal and the unreality scared me, because I didn’t know where it would take me. I think I heard Miss Roach say, “Are you all right? It’s always a bit weird the first time.” And after she’d said it I couldn’t make up my mind if she just said it or if she’d said it minutes ago. I said something to her and I heard my own voice like I’d never heard it before; as if it had echoed back to me and I was hearing it like you do on a play-back from a tape recorder. I wondered if anyone knew how I felt. Were they hip to what was happening? They were laughing — were they laughing at me? I was suddenly terribly hot and I felt sick. The taste of the Charge was in the back of my throat, and I was still breathing that same taste in because the smoke was thick around me. Someone cracked an amyl and I wondered what the hell they were up to: were they all mad or something? And the smell of it mixed with the Charge was about all I could stand. I found myself on the landing. Miss Roach was next to me. I think she asked me not to leave or something like that, but I told her I had to go. And go I did.
Chapter Two
Triangle
When my sister Liz wasn’t at the breakfast table, I knew there must be something wrong. She’s one of those strange people that likes getting up early, so that she can stay about three hours in the bathroom and take as much time over her breakfast as I would over a four-course dinner. The cornflakes didn’t taste the same without her useless chatter that always accompanied them. To make matters worse I had to prepare them myself, and collect the milk from the doorstep and pour the sugar over them. Not that I’m one of those dreadful people that likes convention, but when you come downstairs and find that you have to prepare your own breakfast when you’re still half asleep, it’s a bit much, isn’t it?
Dad always left the house hours before I ever thought about getting up, and mum had some weird ideas about shopping early so she wasn’t on the breakfast scene, either. That left my beloved sister and myself both trying to kid each other that we weren’t miserable in the mornings. In fact Liz wasn’t, and it always made me as mad as hell to think anyone could be happy at 8.30 a.m. So after eating the cornflakes which I ruined by pouring too much milk over them, I decided to make a full investigation of the disappearance of my dear old skin and blister.
I wondered if she’d gone out on one of those crazy queueing-up marathons at the sales that she couldn’t resist, or if she’d gone in early to work to catch up on some of that insurance she was always raving about. When looking in the letter box I found there was a letter for her, and as the post is delivered at an unmentionable hour in the morning, I took it for granted that she must still be in the house. There was a letter for me as well, which was very unusual, because since I got sick of writing to some dozy pen friend who lived in Salop who was always raving about building model airplanes, I hardly ever received one. It was from Dusty Miller, and it just said: See you Katz Kradle tonight (Wednesday). Important. Dusty.
This was rather a strange message to receive because since my first meeting with him at his party, we’d become firm friends and hadn’t missed a Wednesday night at the Kradle for about six or seven months. Dusty knew I’d be there as it was th
e night when we always had a serious discussion on about two million subjects ranging from girls to Jazz. It must be important, I thought, else he wouldn’t have squandered the postage money. Don’t get me wrong, Dusty’s not mean, that’s the last thing his enemies could say about him, but everything he does is for a purpose. He thinks about his every little action, but usually fucks it up anyway. But I liked him all right. The main reason I suppose was that he’d brought some action into my life. I admired him too, sort of hero-worshipped him, I guess. He had educated me in the gentle art of Hemp appreciation; oh yes, I soon became an admirer of it — it’s easy when you have a bit of practice. Not that I could afford much myself, but Dusty always managed a turn on and I was never left out. I admired him because although he hadn’t got far in this crazy world, he was trying. You can’t believe all he says, but he does try. He’s a philosopher, too, there’s no doubt about that, and although he shows off all the time you’ve got to listen to him. It’s strange how you get on best with people that are so different to yourself.
I knocked on the door of Liz’s room, and sure enough her squeaky little voice called out, “Is that you?”
“Right first time,” I answered, going in.
I must tell you something about Liz’s room because it’s classic, it really is. It’s so tidy you feel uncomfortable. I always felt she kept it that way so that she could show her boyfriends what a marvellous wife she’d make them. Not that she had orgies with her boyfriends in the room every night, or made a habit of taking them up there at all, come to that, mum made sure of that, but I’d noticed that if she could make some excuse to get one of them up there just for a minute she’d be pleased as Punch about it. How can you get worked up over a room? That’s what I wanted to know. A room’s to sleep in and somewhere to keep your clothes and all that, but Liz would treat it as though it was a sanctuary. As I’ve already told you, my old man is in the decorating game, but Liz insisted that she decorated it herself. Can you beat that? I wouldn’t mind if the reason for all this was because she wanted some weird coloured walls, like purple for instance; but no. Red roses on a white background. Honest. Above the bed was a signed photo of Frankie Laine grinning at her like a great big ape, and on the other wall was Kay Starr who wasn’t quite so bad but a bit mumsy. Another crazy thing: out of her own personal pocket money, twice a week, she’d buy flowers and have them on the dressing table alongside her bottle of Californian Poppy. That was about the end for me as she was never in the room to see them, except at nights when she went to bed.
As soon as I saw Liz lying there in bed with her very unsex-making pyjamas on, I knew she wasn’t well. She gave me a ‘I-want-your-sympathy’ look, as she pulled the bed sheets high over her shoulders. Her face was even paler than usual, and believe me that’s very pale, and there were tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead, looking as if they’d been put there for some weird decoration. The room was so clean and tidy it reminded me of a hospital ward complete with patient.
“What’s all this, my Lizabet, feeling unhealthy?” I said, sitting myself on the edge of the bed.
“I’m all right. I shall be fine in a minute, once I get up,” she answered, sounding like a movie heroine after being taken to hospital following a car crash.
“Surely you don’t want me to put on the big brother act and tell you that you shouldn’t get up at all and all that nonsense. You take it easy and I’ll bring your breakfast up here and you can have it in bed, and don’t ever say I don’t ever do anything for you.” She lay there not saying a dicky-bird. “Does mum know you’re not well?”
That woke her up. She half shouted, “No, and don’t you tell her, either. She’s got enough worry without me making things worse for her. Now clear out of here quick. I want to get up. Well, go on, don’t just stand there — scram!”
Before I knew where I was, I was lumbered out on to the landing. I went downstairs to the kitchen and was putting the kettle on again when I heard the key go in the door. Mum came into the kitchen carrying about two dozen shopping bags and looking exhausted. “What on earth are you doing,” she said as though she’d found me chopping up our dog Rinty into little pieces.
“All right — don’t rub it in, I know I don’t usually make the tea, but I’m quite capable,” I said, lighting the gas.
“Miracles will never cease,” she said, putting the shopping away. “Where’s your sister?”
“She overslept this morning. She’ll be down in a minute.”
I went back to the dining-room and relaxed in the armchair with a copy of The Other Side, my favourite Spiritualist newspaper. Now I must admit that my religious kick had nearly worn out. Dusty and all that went with him was taking practically all my spare time, and I had left Dolly Diamond’s developing circle. She had a right go at me and told me that I was a very silly young man for doing so, as she expected me to develop into a really talented medium; a second Estelle Roberts. I hadn’t neglected Bunty quite so much; the sex kick was definitely in the lead from the religious one, but I wasn’t seeing quite so much of her either. But I hadn’t stopped reading The Other Side, because it’s a gass, it really is. It tells you all this crap about how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and a whole load of other educated guys were Spiritualists, and spent their lives fighting for the cause, and as they’re educated and everything they’ve got to be right, and it isn’t up to us uneducated morons to argue with them. Of course, all these cats died hundreds of years ago, or nearly that amount of time anyway, but they never let you forget about them. Then it goes on to tell you about how successful the propaganda meeting was that was held in such and such a hall, and that the medium was right on form that night and told twelve people that their pet dog who was run over last year is still barking away in his own little spirit world. The classified ads would knock you out. ‘See your dearly beloved Grandma that’s passed over, with the Psycho-Ray Goggles’ or ‘Middleaged lady wishes to meet middle-aged gentleman to form a circle.’
When Liz arrived downstairs for her breakfast she looked like one of the patients from Emergency Ward 10. She’s thin at the best of times but she looked a real Belsen number now. Her clothes didn’t help any. I couldn’t understand why she dressed so damn badly. I’m not saying I’m a fashion expert, but fuck, she didn’t have any idea at all. She was wearing that unpleated skirt of hers, the one that makes her look like a Russian peasant woman gone wrong, and her shoes couldn’t have been flatter if they’d been plimsoles. I couldn’t see anyone really fancying her, unless they were on some kinky little nine-year-old girl with thin arms and legs and blushing and innocent kick.
The look she gave me said, “‘you-breathe-a-word-to-mum-and-I’ll-throttle-you.” I glanced away pretending not to have noticed it.
“What’s the matter with you this morning?” mum said, bringing the breakfast in.
She didn’t look up but carried on staring at the woman’s magazine she had in front of her. On the cover was one of those lamp-post-looking models whom I’m sure don’t exist in real life, but I could tell she wasn’t reading it. “Nothing,” she answered casually.
“It’s not like you to be late for work. You ill or something?” mum went on.
“Of course not,” she blurted out. “Why the inquest? He’ll tell you that my alarm didn’t go off. Go on, ask him.”
Our mother turned to my direction but didn’t say anything.
“That’s right. I had to wake her up,” I said, sounding very disinterested. I received a nice you’re-very-faithful look from Liz and I returned it with a you-can-always-rely-on-me one.
“Well, I’d better be going. Down and Company couldn’t carry on without me,” I said, picking up the bag of cakes for my elevenses which was on the table.
“Hold on a minute and I’ll walk up to the bus stop with you,” said Liz, gulping down her tea.
“You two sound unusually affectionate this morning. Usually having a glorious row by now,” mother said suspiciously.
We both gave her a son-an
d-daughter-kiss and were off.
The quietness of the street was unreal because the scene wasn’t exactly deserted. The few people about on their way to the graft seemed to be walking on tiptoes in case they woke the neighbours up, and the milkman seemed half afraid to clink his bottles. I felt like shouting at the top of my voice. “Wake up! This is the world! The place where your time is limited, so it’s up to you to make the most of it. Don’t think — live!”
The sun was already quite warm and it promised to be a glorious day, but I couldn’t have cared less if it had been snowing, as all I could think about was the fact that it was half day closing and I’d be free from work at one o’clock. Liz walked next to me with her eyes glued to the ground as if she was a tramp looking for dog-ends, not saying a word but humming something from Salad Days to herself very quietly. She looked pathetic walking there in the sunlight with such a morbid expression on her face; like a little girl lost.
“Well, what gives?” I said, as it was the only thing I could think of saying.
“Nothing,” she said half-heartedly. Then, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Go ahead and talk,” I said, getting interested.
“No. I mean, not here. Look, can you meet me somewhere after I’ve finished work?”
Now I must explain that my sister Elizabeth isn’t the dramatic type; I mean she doesn’t make mountains out of molehills and all that, so by now I was feeling a little bit disturbed.
“It’s my half-day today and later I’ve got to go up west to the Katz Kradle, so I could meet you up Town if you like.”
She didn’t say anything to this but stopped in the middle of the pavement, fished a pencil and paper out of her frowsy-looking handbag, rested it against a garden gate and started to write.
“This is the address. It’s just off Piccadilly. I’ll be there at five-thirty, so wait outside,” she said, handing me the paper.
