by Liam Brown
To call it a house was probably pushing it. It certainly wasn’t a home. Most of the windows had been smashed and repaired with taped-up plastic bags, staining what little light spilled in from the streetlamps outside a strange artificial blue. Looking out, it felt like you were inside a giant bubble, a self-contained pod operating outside boring grown-up conventions like night and day, or summer or winter. The only time here was ‘party time’, the sole condition of entry: extreme and debilitating intoxication.
This free-flowing philosophy extended to the interior of the house, the rooms refusing to be defined by societal expectations. There wasn’t a kitchen or lounge per se; rather rooms seemed to run into each other, with great chunks of plaster missing from the partition walls creating a sort of open-plan network of spaces where people lay sprawled on the floor, or danced on the stairs, or vomited against walls, or fucked in darkened corners. On the back of the front door someone had graffitied an enormous lime green penis. It was difficult to imagine people actually living here.
As I stared blearily at the chaos unfolding all around me, I happened upon a small pocket of clarity. I realised I had no idea how I’d got here. I tried to retrace the evening’s events but it was no good; the holes in my memory were bigger than those in the crumbling wall I was propped against. The girl I’d gone out with eight or nine hours earlier was nowhere to be seen and the people I was standing with now appeared to be speaking German. Wie geht es dir? one of them asked, clamping an arm around my shoulder to stop me toppling over. I shrugged him off, fumbling for the bottle he was holding out and taking a long hit, a flavourless paint-thinner burn bringing tears to my eyes. I handed it back and staggered off to look for a bathroom, or somewhere to lie down. Picking my way across the filthy floor, being careful to take a wide arc around the people dancing in the centre of the room, I approached one of the larger wall-holes and hoisted myself through, disappearing into the darkness.
I blinked once, twice, my eyes struggling to adjust to the light, which was even dimmer than on the other side of the wall. Rather than a bathroom, I appeared to have stumbled on some sort of makeshift chill-out room, a circle of bodies lying stretched out on a ragged assortment of beanbags and old mattresses. It was quieter in here, the harsh dance music blaring in the other room now reduced to a muffled, guttural thump. Squinting to see if I recognised any of the people on the floor, I was distracted by a faint blue flickering in the centre of the circle. Intrigued, I took a step forward and stooped down, my senses immediately assaulted by a dank, musky odour. ‘Hey,’ somebody said, handing me a bottle as I perched on the edge of the mattress. I took a quick hit, then another, my head starting to buzz nicely again as I tried to make sense of the unfamiliar ritual unfolding in front of me.
The guy was my age, a couple of years older maybe, though he’d probably have passed for mid-forties; the tell-tale black circles around his eyes and mottled grey complexion reminding me of a corpse I’d seen on some detective show once, a badly made-up extra laid out on the slab. I wondered how long he’d been at the party. I watched as his fingers worked quickly to fold a sheet of aluminium foil in two before he produced a lighter, delicately stroking the silver creases with the flame, being careful not to linger in any one spot for too long. Once he was satisfied, he reached down and produced a small wrap of clingfilm, expertly shaking a line of off-white powder into the shallow ridge he’d created. I felt a spasm of excitement in my chest. This was something I’d only ever seen before in movies, or caught whispers about in the playground. It was a dark, wicked thing; forbidden, fantastic – the slippery slope your parents warned you about.
I took another hit from the bottle.
The man was holding something in his mouth now, a wrinkled, stubby tube that also looked like it had been fashioned from foil, and as I leaned closer he again lifted the lighter and sparked it to life, the blue flame illuminating the stiff expression on his face. There was no anticipation there, no longing. Only a grim determination, like a carpenter eyeing a loose floorboard that needed fixing.
Then raising the hammer to strike the nail.
He brought the lighter closer to the foil and then, in one startlingly quick movement, he bent forward and traced under the line of powder with the flame, jerking his head in order to catch every last curl of smoke that rose up from the bubbling mess where the powder had been, his face finally alive, lips curling in blissed-out satisfaction as he clutched at his straining chest, dampening a cough before finally exhaling a thin shadow in my direction.
And then he looked up.
‘You want some?’ he asked, like we were splitting a sandwich, or a chocolate bar. I didn’t answer, a ripple of movement in the shadows suggesting there were others waiting impatiently for an offer. But the man didn’t seem to notice, his fingers already moving automatically, refolding foil, emptying powder, the whole procedure conducted with an almost medical detachment so that it was hard to get excited or to feel worried about any of it until suddenly the man was holding out the foil tube for me to take and saying, ‘Just make sure you suck it all up. Don’t let any get away.’ And I just sat there, frozen, drunk, tired, scared, angry.
Twenty-one.
And so I shrugged and said, ‘Fuck it,’ and took his stupid tube. And held it to my lips. And closed my eyes. And listened for the sound of the spark. And then:
‘Wait!’
I opened my eyes, managing to spill the powder from the foil as I turned towards the sound of the voice. The dead-faced man swore loudly, scrambling to his knees in a desperate attempt to save some of the dust from falling between the floorboards. But I didn’t care. Because I was staring at the man who had just walked into the room – well, a boy really – tall, clean-cut, wearing a shirt and tie of all things. He was like a dream, a vision. He was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. And he was talking to me. He said:
‘You want to get out of here.’
It wasn’t a question.
There were three choices, like a fuckin game show or somethin – pick A, B or C to win a prize. Only there was no luxury Caribbean holiday waitin in a golden envelope for us if we picked the right one. Jus’ the chance to swat away the vultures that had been circlin overhead ever since the attack.
Choice A was the simplest. We stayed put and did nothin. Now on first inspection, this wasn’t as dumb an idea as it sounded. After all, we were due to arrive at the airfield the next night. When we didn’t show up a search team would immediately be deployed to recover us and – ta-dah! – we’d be back home in time for breakfast the next day.
Sounds like a no-brainer, huh? Except this all relied on some bright spark actually noticin our absence amongst an influx of 100,000 personnel and then havin the fuckin brains to realise that our not being there actually signified a problem. Even then, should we be lucky enough to have Billy Brainbox put two and two together and send out a team to look for us, who knows if they’d actually be able to find us? Once we laid out our equipment in the light, we found that Jim was right – nearly all of it had either been destroyed or stolen.
What’s more, the bastards seemed to have specifically targeted our tech equipment: GPS, satellite phone, radio – basically anything we could use to contact the outside world was gone, as was anything that could be used to track us. Our rations too had been hit, as had our water supplies. And of course the tents were all shot up as well, meaning we didn’t have any shelter. Pretty much the only things that remained intact were our weapons, which looked like they hadn’t been touched at all. In fact, we now had far more guns and ammunition than we could carry, owin to everyone bein dead and all. At least if things got too desperate out here there’d be no shortage of choice should we decide to finish ourselves off ha.
On the other hand we had options B and C – both of which involved a shitload of walkin. Option B, the one Jim favoured, meant walkin back to the base, retracin our steps as best we could and hopin to fuck we didn’t get lost. Now this sounded like horseshit to me. Firstly
we’d already walked two days to get out here, and we supposedly only had one day left before we hit the airstrip. This would mean walking an extra day if we followed Jim’s plan, which considerin the food and water situation didn’t sound like it made a fuck of a lot of sense. Secondly, what do ya think’d happen to us after we rocked up at the base in two days’ time? Even if they believed our story and didn’t lock us up for desertin or something, the best we could hope for was to be patched up and sent to join another platoon to ship out with. We’d be makin the journey twice for nothin!
All of which is why my choice – to carry on towards the airstrip – makes the most sense. Even taking it slowly, we should be able to reach it by the end of the day, or at the latest by tomorrow morning. Twelve hours. Which, considerin the state of our supplies, is about how long we’re gonna last.
Despite all this though, Jim was adamant. He wanted us to turn around and walk back to base. God knows why. Probably wants to win himself a medal or somethin. Sergeant Needle-Dick Saves the Day! You see with the Lieutenant dead, Jim was technically the highest ranked among us. I didn’t give a shit though. There was no way in hell I was gonna let some jumped up secretary pull rank and make me march an extra two days in the wrong direction. And so this mornin when he suggested we get goin, your daddy decided to use a bit of the ol’ charm to explain my position to him.
‘Fuck you Jim you fuckin cunt, we ain’t fuckin goin. And don’t even think about pullin rank on me, you shrivelled ol’ fuck-stain of a fuck-up. You might be Sergeant of this platoon, but as far as I can tell, there ain’t no fuckin platoon left. There’s just five blokes sat in the desert,’ I paused to jab a finger at Cal, Doggie and Jett, who were sat up on the bank, watchin with open mouths. ‘And we ain’t gonna starve to death jus’ so you can win a medal. Now, we had orders to go to the airstrip. We’re goin to the airstrip. You fuckin got it?’
We put it to a vote in the end, me and Jim with a line drawn in the sand between us. Neither of us said a thing as we stood there facin the boys. We didn’t need to. Everyone knew the game. It was time to pick sides. Jett was first to move. Apparently he’s only a year older than Cal, but you’d never believe it. He’s a big lad is Jett, not just tall but stacked, athletic lookin. Whereas most of us are sunburnt, Jett is sunkissed, with these big blue eyes below a perfect handful of blond hair, jus’ bout as long as regulations allow. Reckons he’s a big-shot surfer back home, which wouldn’t surprise me. He’s got that look about him – sort of a fake southern stoner charm thing goin on. Course he’s a real hit with the ladies. The fellas too I wouldn’t wonder, what with that hair. Yep, you’d have to try real hard to hate ol’ Jett. But I just about manage it, ha.
‘Okay then folks,’ Jett said, hoppin to his feet and flashin a set of perfectly white teeth. ‘So I hate to be a dick, Corporal, but I think the Staff Sergeant has a point. And seein as he’s the highest ranked officer and all…’ He trailed off as he sauntered over to Jim’s side of the line. And then, once he was stood next to him, the fucker winked at me. I ain’t kiddin – he actually winked at me! Well I just gave him a great big grin and shrugged my shoulder, silently wishing bowel cancer on him and his entire fuckin family.
Next up was Cal. The poor kid’d managed to get some clothes on by now, but he still looked shell-shocked, his rabbit-wild eyes glued to the dirt as he got up and shuffled over to me. ‘I jus’ wanna go home,’ he mumbled as I gave him a gentle dig in the arm.
That just left Doggie.
Now I’ve known Doggie for about five years for my sins. See, I’m not convinced there’s much goin on behind that big, dumb face of his. Doggie likes motorbikes. Doggie likes animals. Doggie likes his beer cold, his meals hot and his women smokin’, baby! And that’s about it. If you were feeling generous you might say he’s a man of simple pleasures. On the other hand you might just call him a fat retard. What’s more, he insists on presentin himself as one of those sickeningly cheerful fat guys, the kind who hides behind a shield of bad puns and wisecracks to deflect from the fact his cardiovascular system is groaning under the strain of keepin his fat ass vertical. I looked down at him, a little roll of belly hangin out over his belt. Fuck knows how he made Corporal. I guess they didn’t know what else to do with him.
‘Hmmm…’ he said, scratchin at the thick stubble that speckled his several chins. ‘Now let me get this straight. Our GPS is smashed, our phones and radio gone. And we ain’t got no map or compass neither?’ This was true. In its eternal wisdom, the army no longer saw fit to equip us with basic tools like a map – not when there was a hi-tech version that allowed us to do all sorts of fancy tricks. Seems nobody had considered the eventuality that a group of bloodthirsty Monsters might reduce our kit to a pile of crushed microchips.
‘And our food and water situation’s lookin less than appealin,’ Doggie continued. ‘In fact I guess you could say we’re up stink creek without a life jacket, uh-huh… ’ I grimaced. ‘Guess that’s about the size of it, D… ’ Doggie nodded to himself, pleased to have spelled out the fuckin obvious for nobody’s benefit. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said again as he heaved himself up to his feet, lookin from me to Jim and back again like he hadn’t already made up his mind, like he didn’t know exactly where he was goin to place his cross. Right then I felt like steppin forward and slittin the fat cunt’s throat, just to watch the look on his face.
‘Well then… ’ he says, takin a step towards us. ‘I guess that only leaves one logical course of action… ’ HURRY THE FUCK UP YOU FAT MOTHERFUCKIN PIECE OF SHIT. ‘… And in a way I’m sorry it has to come down to this…’ I’m reachin for my gun now. I’m reachin for my gun and I’m gonna shoot him in the fuckin eye. ‘… Buuuuut… I’m gonna have to go with Corporal Parker on this one. The less time we’re out here the better as far as I’m concerned. I’m sorry Jim… ’
Good ol’ Doggie. I knew he had it in him. He might be slow, but he’s alright. ‘Well then Sergeant,’ I said as Doggie took his place next to me and Cal. ‘It looks like democracy has spoken.’ For a second I thought he was about to try and pull that highest rank shit again, but he just shrugged his shoulders and spat on the ground. ‘Looks that way,’ he said. ‘Fuckin right it looks that way,’ I snapped back. Sergeant or not, I ain’t takin his shit. Then I turned to the rest of them. ‘Looks like we’re goin home boys!’ Doggie of course started up then, letting out a loud ‘Hell yeah!’ while Cal and Jett just sort of mumbled and nodded.
Not that I blame ’em. To tell the truth son, it don’t feel like much to celebrate. Not when there’s so much blood in the sand. But we are comin home son. That’s the main thing. And it won’t be long now. It won’t be long.
When somebody saves your life, the least you can do is buy them a drink. That was something your father used to say. And so that is how, as night edged towards day and the first commuters started heaving their way across town on a brisk, late-summer’s morning, I found myself sat in a grimy twenty-four hour diner, cradling a lukewarm black coffee in my lap and spilling my guts to a smartly dressed stranger.
Little did I know then I was talking to your future daddy.
His name was Daniel – ‘like the kid with the lions’ – but he preferred Danny for short. Danny Parker. I asked him if he was religious and he said he wasn’t sure. He believed in hell but didn’t know about heaven. I asked if he thought that might make him a pessimist. He shrugged and laughed. ‘Fucked if I know.’ Mostly though, he was happy to let me do the talking. Which is just as well really, as with the booze still pumping through my system I was on a roll, hopping from subject to subject with total disregard for traditional narrative structure, taking in drinking, university, school, my dead dad and my clinically sad mother and sister, my hobbies and interests. ‘Let me guess, heroin?’ Danny said, flashing a rare, crooked smile. ‘A drunken mistake that never happened,’ I countered. ‘Thanks to you.’
Our eyes met across the greasy counter.
Thanks to him.
Later on I asked your fa
ther why he called out to me in that scummy room, why out of all the girls who must have been at the party, he decided to try and save me. ‘Because you looked like you wanted to be saved,’ he answered, shooting me a look I’d get used to seeing – a look that meant I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. ‘Plus I guessed you’d be an easy lay, ha.’
That morning, as the traffic rattled outside the diner window, growing progressively louder as the morning crawled on, neither of us felt the need to explain ourselves. He’d asked and I’d answered. That was all either of us needed to know. We spent another hour or so drinking industrial strength coffee, me talking and Danny listening, before the first shoots of a poisonous hangover broke the surface and threatened to strangle my monologue. I excused myself and made my way to the bathroom to splash my face with water.
When I returned to the table I saw that Danny had gathered his things together. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, struggling to keep the panic out of my voice, unexpectedly frightened by the prospect of him leaving. Of being alone again. He stood up, pointing to his tie. ‘Interview,’ he explained. ‘I can’t be late. Plus, you look like you could do with a little sleep. No offence.’ I felt my airway begin to constrict as I fumbled for the right words to make him stay, aware I was probably coming on a little psychotic. ‘Bu-but,’ I stammered, playing for time, desperately trying to keep the conversation going for another precious few seconds. ‘What’s the interview for?’ Danny paused, seeming genuinely surprised by my interest. ‘Oh. Well. I signed up a few months ago and I finally got the call a week or so ago. I’ve already passed my medical. It’s my selection interview today. I’m going to be… ’
A soldier.
‘That’s great,’ I gushed, uncertain if it was but desperate to keep him talking all the same. ‘Are you nervous?’ But it was no good, Danny was already backing away from me. ‘Look I’m sorry Lorna, I’ve really got to go.’ Swallowing down my embarrassment I stood up, deciding to go for broke. ‘But don’t you want to… meet up again?’ To my horror he gave a little laugh – ha – and turned away. ‘Wait!’ I called, far too loud, people around us looking up from their breakfasts.
