Chinaski

by Frances Vick

  * * *

  They didn’t go to the second after party right away. First they made an appearance at the main party and drained it of Jägermeister. Photos in the next day’s papers would make much of Legendary Rock Journo Harris partying with Old Pal Peter, showing the youngsters how to do it. It was around midnight when they made their way to Lydia’s party, in a warehouse only a few streets away.

  As Chris had predicted, there were no real famous people here, just drunk journalists, industry types and D-listers. But it was crowded, loud and anonymous enough for Peter, who by now was feeling his drinks and the lines of devastatingly pure cocaine that Chris had pressed on him earlier. Peter had forgotten about being old, being tired, being jaded. He felt happy again, like Chris’ best friend. Chris, too, looked younger now, with the same swaggering vigour that had always impressed him. Together, they were the best, the funniest people in the room – in any room.

  The party had a 90s theme. Boxy, muted TVs propped up in corners played MTV Unplugged. Thin, bored looking boys with piercings and dreadlocks drifted around with cooler boxes of beers. Most of the girls had their hair tied up in little knots, wore platform boots and silver mini dresses. Bar staff in Nirvana t-shirts gave out temporary tribal tattoos and glow sticks with the first drink. Scatter cushions spilled out of four transit vans parked in the corners, and TVs were placed in these, too, playing back-to-back recordings of Top of the Pops and Snub TV.

  Peter and Chris gaped and giggled, snagged some beers and groped their way to a van.

  Once inside, Chris chopped out some lines on a record sleeve.

  “Why are there records here?” yelled Peter, dabbing up the residue, “I mean, who would have records in a van? It’s stupid. How would you play them? What are they doing here? You had tapes in a van. And they’re not even the right kind of records, look, Aerosmith...fucking LL Cool J. It’s just, what’s the word? Anachronistic? No? No. It’s just wrong. Who would tour in a fucking van, with records, these records? It’s stupid.”

  “If you’re searching for internal logic in this situation –” Chris finished his line, sniffed and swallowed with a shudder – “you’re in for a world of hurt.” He lurched out of the van and grabbed a passing waiter by his dreadlock wig, “We really ought to have some more booze here. Vodka wouldn’t hurt. And the Lady Lydia, bring her!”

  The waiter straightened his wig sullenly. “I don’t know who Lydia is. She on the bar?”

  “The boss. The architect of this confusion. Her.” Chris jabbed his business card at him. It said ‘Cunt At Large’ in embossed gold lettering. When the waiter came back with a bottle of Stolichnaya and four mini cans of sprite, Chris pulled the van doors shut.

  It was dark now, and quieter. Weak light came from the silent TV, showing a hits compilation from 1993. There was Whitney Houston, Soul Asylum, Cypress Hill. And, suddenly, there was Peter, young again, chubby and serious at his drum kit. There was John, the sides of his head newly shaved. And there was Carl, shining in the collective gaze of a paid audience of extras, all beginning to jump and heave forwards to touch him. Carl was a blur, his hair hung across his eyes, his arms flailed at his guitar, his chapped lips touched the microphone, a glint of teeth. The camera followed the vertiginous lurching of the crowd, moving forward to touch and envelop him, and the stage itself made surreal undulations towards their outstretched hands.

  The near touch, and then the sudden retreat, like lovers pulled apart. Peter watched his younger self, feeling his eyes water, his throat tighten. Everything on the screen seemed so painfully pure. They were all so young, and so desperate not to look young, all of them, even Carl. Those wide eyes. That slash of a mouth. Those thin limbs, all burnt to ashes only months later. Such tragedy written large in a small frame. Peter heard his own ragged breath, and took a swig of vodka. He heard Chris chopping out another couple of lines. Subtitles giving information on the video kept popping up on the screen: ‘Filmed in only one day in a condemned warehouse, the video for Shattered won several awards’, then, ‘The drummer broke two ribs during the making of the video for Shattered, when he fell off a trampoline’.

  Well that’s not true, Peter thought, but must have said it aloud, because Chris shuffled up next to him, saw what he was watching, and gave a cracked chuckle – halfway between contempt and indulgence.

  “Fatty.” He poked Peter in the ribs. “You were such a fatty in those days.”

  “I was chubby.”

  “You were chubby. Christ, I haven’t seen this in years. Can we turn it up? No? Ah. Well. And. There he is.”

  Carl in brightly lit close up, pools of shadow in the dips of his collarbones, and that bruised mouth stretched open, those blue eyes squeezed shut.

  “Christ. It’s like seeing a ghost, isn’t it?” Chris murmured as the mute Carl whirled and thrashed; the crowd leaned and yearned, while the two middle aged men watched, sitting heavy and still as stone, separated by decades; a lifetime. The last subtitle came up near the end of the video: ‘Tragically, vocalist Carl Howell killed himself only months later. Peter Hamilton, the drummer in Chinaski, later formed the supergroup Silencer’. The screen faded to black and then a perky Janet Jackson appeared: ‘That’s the Way Love Goes was one of the biggest hits of...’

  Peter and Chris turned away.

  “They shouldn’t have said he killed himself,” Peter mumbled.

  “He was...” – Chris gestured helplessly – “He was – arresting. Wasn’t he? You know what I mean? Don’t you? But frustrating. Slippery.” And, as Peter nodded, “I find myself thinking about him sometimes now. Almost often. Strange. You?”

  “Not really. It sounds terrible, but I don’t. I should, I suppose.” Peter drank with his eyes closed. The coke that up until now had had him feeling light, ageless and effervescent seemed to have turned on him, and he felt small stirrings of panic, almost of grief. What would Carl have been like now, if he’d lived? Would time have bulked him up, would age have suited him? Peter tried to imagine what a middle aged Carl would look like, but all that went through his mind was an image of Peter Pan, unstuck in time, with a mouth full of baby teeth and a memory wiped clean. He shuddered, looked over at Chris and was relieved to see that he was chopping out two more small lines on a record sleeve. In a while, he’d be able to think more clearly, or not think at all.

  “I had a dream about him the other night,” said Chris, passing the record to Peter.

  “You said you had a dream?” Peter prompted a minute or so later.

  “What? Oh yes. Yes. A dream. Disturbing.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was going somewhere to give a talk, and I was late, forgot my notes, got lost, fairly generic dream really. All that was missing was the nudity. So I nipped into the toilet for a breather, get myself together and sat down and I heard these noises from the stall next to me.”

  “Noises? Like –”

  “No, no – not the kind of noises one would expect from a toilet. I mean like –” Chris creased his face looking for the right phrase,” – a madman, crying. So I foolishly get up and knock on the door, you know, ‘Are you OK in there?’ You’d never do it in real life, but in a dream...and then the lock turns and the door is pushed open and suddenly it’s incredibly light, fluorescent...”

  “And?”

  “And Carl is sitting there, but, you know, how they found him. And I realise that there’s no way he could have made those sounds because he’s dead. I mean, he’s obviously dead. But then he does start again, starts making the sounds, talking.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I couldn’t make it out. I didn’t want to. All I felt is that I had to get away from him before I began to understand, or, God forbid, he began to move. Ah. God, it was gruesome, Peter, I tell you. I woke up and was too afraid to go to the toilet alone.” He laughed weakly, “I had to sleep with the light on. Like a child.”

  After a short silence, both men made a sudden rush towards the back doors of the van, p
ushing past each other into the light.

  “Scared!” Peter laughed nervously, but Chris didn’t join in. His hands shook.

  They stood together, awkwardly paralysed with cocaine, on the edge of the dancefloor, frightened and bewildered, hoping to feel better. All around them faces flashed by and phrases reached their ears from the gloom. They felt blood rushing through their narrowed arteries, the heavy pounding of their hearts, and they were both on the verge of panic, when the dreadlock-wigged waiter swung by and rescued them with his normality.

  “You still want the manager? He’s over there.” The boy pointed through the crowd at a table tucked away beside the bar.

  Chris rallied: “Lydia’s had a sex change?”

  The boy gazed at him without interest, “His name’s James. He’s over there, I’ll take you. You can’t smoke,” as Chris pulled out his lighter.

  They threaded through the crowd and arrived at the table. A slim, modish man of about Peter’s age looked up from his phone, smiled at them with his mouth only and asked them to sit down.

  “I’m James. Catherine’s business partner. Drink?”

  “Christ, yes,” said Chris, all bonhomie again, “Anything. Vodka?”

  “Peter?”

  “Vodka’s fine,” Peter thought he said. He seemed to be understood, so that was OK. The next challenge was sitting down neatly. Where was Lydia? He wanted to ask, but had trouble forming the words. Wait for a drink, have a drink, that might help you out. Drink. Nod at the right times. Ride it out. Peter edged around the table, clinging to it like wreckage, nearly missing the seat. Now, to speak properly, “How’s Lydia?”

  “Sex change!” said Chris again.

  James smiled tensely, “She’s very well. But she’s called Catherine now. She’ll be along in a moment or two. I’m glad to have the chance to meet you first, actually. When I saw the card, I assumed it must be the Chris Harris she used to know, but I didn’t know that Peter would be with you. Double fun.”

  What did that mean? Double fun? What did he mean by that? James, or whatever his name is, what does he mean by that? Where was Lydia anyway? She must want to see them – she’s probably been dining out on once knowing Peter. She was that type. Where was she? The drink arrived and Peter found he was able to pick it up without spilling it, and swallow without making a mess. All good. Nothing to see here. He saw Chris taking out his ‘COCAINE’ tin and hoped to Christ he wasn’t going to chop out any more lines. What was he made of? How was he even still alive for fuck’s sake? Jesus, he is, he is! Out comes his card, out comes the rolled up twenty. Down comes James’ hand on Chris’ twitching fingers.

  “Can’t have that here, friend. If you must, then be discreet. It’s not the 90s anymore.”

  Chris gestured at the dreadlocked waiting staff, the transit vans and the TVs, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes but this is an event. It’s supposed to be kitsch. Catherine and I realised a few years ago that the new retro would be the 90s. So we bought all of this stuff – the clothes, and the old TVs and we keep them in storage to use at events like this. It’s becoming surprisingly popular and we’re ahead of the game. But we don’t have to act like we’re still there, surely?” There was an awkward silence. James, smiling, stared at Chris. Chris, eyes narrowed, sneer on his lips, stayed frozen for a while, and then put his tin back in his pocket.

  “Catherine will be happy to see you,” James went on, “but I can’t have her upset.” He looked significantly at them. “I can’t have her… teased. And none of that,” he touched his nose.

  Peter found his voice: “She’s ill?”

  “No...not ill. She’s very well actually. But she finds reminders of Carl Howell difficult. Especially around this time of year, with it being the anniversary of his death, it’s hard for her. It might be for you too, so I’m sure I can count on you to understand and be kind.” There was steel in his voice, behind the smile.

  Even Chris looked chastened, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight, “It’s been twenty years though, surely –”

  “Yes, like I said, she’s fine. She’s very well. But some people don’t get over things as easily as others. You must know that,” – he smiled at Peter – “he can be mentioned, discussed even, but I can’t have any unkindness, even as a joke. If that happens, I’ll have to ask you to leave. And, here she is!” James stood up to greet her.

  Lydia, elegant and lean, approached the table cautiously. Her brown hair fell in smooth layers past her shoulders, her teeth were perfectly straight. She looked nothing like the person Peter remembered.

  “Jesus, Lydia, you look great!”

  “Had some work done, have we?” smirked Chris.

  Lydia twinkled, “How are we all?” James caught her eye and smiled as she relaxed into a chair. He went off to find a waiter.

  Chris grimaced, “Who’s the fag?”

  Lydia ignored him, and turned to Peter instead: “How’s it going? Did you win anything tonight?”

  “He won the Rock Dinosaur category. Pure pedigree.”

  Now Lydia grimaced at Chris, “Surely you were up for the same thing?”

  Chris raised his eyebrows, paused. Then tried a different tack. “And how is this? The business?”

  “It’s fine. Good. I mean, who doesn’t like a party?”

  Chris gazed at a group of drunk journalists goosing a passing waitress. “Who indeed?”

  Lydia coughed, “And Peter. How are you? I haven’t seen you in a long while.”

  Peter was still having trouble controlling his jaw. “Not since Carl’s funeral,” he juddered, and Lydia looked down again at her clasped hands and sucked her cheeks. Now Peter was talking, he found it difficult to stop, like a man falling down a hillside. Words tumbled over each other as he tried to make himself understood, grinding his teeth, asking questions.

  “– and what happened to that guy –that old guy? The one who – Carl – lived with. You know the one – the one with the tattoos and the shorts. The bald one.”

  “Dom?” Lydia looked surprised.

  “Dom, yes, him. Dom. What happened to him? Do you know?”

  Lydia stared at him. “He was killed. It was all over the news about ten years ago. You didn’t see it? Some teenagers broke into his flat, or they were there anyway, maybe he’d invited them in. They robbed him, tortured him. It was terrible, it took him a few days to die. It was all over the news.”

  “Jesus, that was him?” Chris whistled. “Jesus, I remember that.”

  “I’ve not been in the country much. Don’t keep up with the news much,” Peter shook out.

  “Christ, Peter, you look like you’re falling apart. Have a drink, get yourself together,” said Chris, irritated, and Peter ducked his head and got up clumsily.

  “...Head out for a smoke...”

  Lydia and Chris watched him cannon off tables towards the exit. There was a pause. Chris took a healthy hit of his drink. Lydia sipped water and frowned at her knees.

  “You changed your name. Why change your name?”

  Lydia shrugged. “I didn’t change it. Lydia is just my middle name and I went by that for a while, that’s all. Then I –”

  “Grew up?”

  “I suppose so. Or I needed a change. And how about you, Chris – did you grow up, did you change?”

  Chris rolled his eyes, “Oh I’m permanently changing, sweetheart.”

  Lydia laughed at him. The thought passed through her mind that she finally had the guts to laugh at Chris Harris. Maybe tonight would be OK after all. Maybe she was OK after all. When James came back and gave her a concerned look, she smiled at him. It was OK, her look said, really. But stay with me.

  James carried a bottle of Moët and four glasses. “We’ll wait for Peter, but I’m sure a toast is in order.”

  “I was talking to your partner,” said Chris, ignoring him. “All this recreating the past, it’s impossible to get it right and why would you even want to?”

  “I was explain
ing to Chris that the 90s is proving to be a popular theme for parties at the moment,” said James. “But I really don’t think we’re trying to recreate the past. It’s more of a...homage, I’d say.”

  “Fucking paltry decade anyway. It didn’t produce anything of value.”

  Lydia laughed at him again. “You don’t put too much value on yourself, do you?”

  Again she felt that wave of triumph, as Chris scowled, fruitlessly searching his mind for a put down. He was just a man. A drunk at that. He really wasn’t anything to be so scared of.

  Peter weaved through the crowd, looking a little better. He sat down heavily, snagged a passing waiter’s combats, and asked for a beer. “Thank God dreads haven’t come back. Jesus.”

  “Do you remember when you had dreads, Peter?” asked Lydia, sweetly.

  “I didn’t!”

  “You did. Remember? You went to see The Levellers and came back with dreadlocks. They looked terrible. You don’t remember? Before the European tour? They looked so natty that Carl said he’d throw you out of the band if you kept them.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You did! I’m not surprised you don’t want to remember, but it’s true.” Lydia turned to James. “They were all misshapen and lumpy, and someone had told him to put beeswax on them to calm them down and harden them up, but he put too much on and he just stunk of it. Horrible.” Lydia was laughing now. Even James chuckled. Peter fought back. “Ok, how about when you came to Reading with us, and you had that fight with that bouncer who wouldn’t let you into the VIP tent, and he had to come and get me. Remember? He thought you were a man because you had that shaved head, but you were claiming to be Carl’s girlfriend.”

  Lydia shook her head, suddenly serious. “That wasn’t me.”

  Peter smiled patronisingly. “Oh, I think I’d remember.”

  She shook her head again. “No. It wasn’t. I didn’t go to Reading. I wasn’t invited.”

  “No, she’s right there, Peter. She couldn’t have been there. Not then. She was on the European tour,” said Chris.