Bebo

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	Chapter Twelve
	Wednesday 5:12pm I climb gingerly out of the driver’s side door and peel the two layers of bin bags off the seat and floor. I roll them carefully into a ball, making sure the soiled side is facing in the way. I waddle my way up the stairs, my trousers damp and greasy against my legs. An ungodly smell of rotting meat is rising from my clothes like a thick nauseous tide. “Ugh, you stink!” says Dan screwing up his face. “Don’t ask,” I say for the second time in two days. “Just don’t fucking ask.” I run a bath and stick my clothes in the washing machine, having first to pull my clothes from yesterday out and hang them on the clotheshorse. There is what looks like a twenty-four pack of Budweiser rattling around in the salad compartment of the fridge. I steal two, making sure first that Dan is not looking, and take them, along with my fags and an ashtray through to the bathroom. I turn the lights off and pop the cap off a bottle with the end of my lighter. I lie back in the warm soapy water with an ashtray balanced on the edge of the tub and watch the copper patterns made by streetlights shining through the frosted window dance on the ceiling. When I inhale, the glow from the tip of my cigarette brings the contours of the room out of the darkness in soft red highlights. Snowflakes make spider sounds on the windowpane as the wind sucks at the glass. I lie still in the smoke and steam, taking the occasional pull from my bottle. The last day of the year. The last six and a half hours to be precise. The death of the year is supposed to be a time for change. Death and rebirth. Reincarnation. Almost all cultures have a version of it. “Well,” I say to myself, my voice sounding loud in my bathroom cave. “At least next year can’t be as shit as this one.” This, of course, is not true. It will be pretty much the same. Dark and long, seasoned with one or two memorable incidents, good or bad, the only distinguishing features which will differentiate it from any other year. I’ve got the death part but the rebirth has never seemed less likely. I am dying in annual increments. I feel no hope at the coming of another year, only a species of blank despair. And behind all of it, behind the three-two-one happy new year, behind the hugs and kisses and Auld Lang Syne, is the knowledge that you have hauled yourself up the ladder only to be swallowed by the snake, seven miles long, and you are right back at the beginning again. The phone goes as I am drying myself. “Fuckhead.” “Mike.” “I have news.” “Good news?” “I managed to shift sixty five, it’s been a busy day.” This is good news. It means there are only fifty left. Fifty to punt tonight before it’s not our problem anymore, before we can relax. I finish drying myself and have another look in the fridge hoping that the constituent parts of The World’s Greatest Sandwich will be in evidence. I am, on this occasion, disappointed. Fuck it, I think, I’ll get a chipper later. I turn my attention instead to my wardrobe. What the fuck am I going to wear tonight? There is not much of a selection on offer. The last item of clothing I bought was my Firetrap jacket which is starting to look a mite tatty. Eventually I decide on a black zip-up hoodie, my T-shirt with the Rolling Stones Logo on it and a pair of boot cut jeans because they are (relatively) clean. I lay them out over my chair ready for later. I yawn and realise that suddenly I am hugely and monstrously tired. I lie back on my bed, intending to rest my eyes for five minutes. Five minutes later I get up, turn the light off, roll myself in my duvet and fall deeply asleep. There is a knock on the door and someone says something. I open my eyes and for a moment there is only blankness. My head is filled with an empty ringing. The knock comes again accompanied by the words. Michael’s here. I blink stupidly, unaware of what those words mean, unable to work out where I am. I sit up with a groan as reality seeps back. I haul myself out of bed and pull on a pair of trackie bottoms and an old jumper. I could have slept through it all, I think. It would have been easy, I wouldn’t even have minded. There is however, work to be done. Dan, like the prick he is, has made Mike wait at the door until I actually answer it. I beckon him in and nod through to the living room where Dan is grumpily watching television. I sit down on the sofa and turn to say something to Mike, however, I never say the something because abruptly it vanishes from my mind. Mike is wearing a pink jumper. Eventually, once I have almost stopped laughing, I manage to blurt out. “Mike what the fuck is that?” He looks at me, trying to act all innocent, but with a look of suppressed annoyance which says he knows exactly what I’m laughing at. “What the fuck is what?” “That jumper,” I snort through my half-suppressed mirth. “It’s pink!” His brows draw together like a gathering thundercloud. “It is not pink!” He says, an ominous undertone in his voice. “Come on Mike!” I hoot. “It’s as pink as a waterhole in flamingo season!” “It’s not pink!” He shouts. “It’s beige! B-A-G-E! Beige! “Bage?” “Oh fuck off!” He is still muttering, not fucking pink, under his breath fifteen minutes later when I head out to get a chip supper and a bottle of vodka. I get a chip and cheese buttie with a jumbo sausage on the side, reasoning that I’d better stock up the energy levels to prepare for a long night ahead. In Alldays I buy a twelve pack of Stella and a bottle of cheap vodka, and just to wind Mike up, a bottle of traditional pink lemonade to mix it with. I meet Stevie, muffled in a scarf which is reminiscent of Dr Who’s, at the door to my building. “Alright,” he says. “I’ve just been speaking to Morgan Brewster. He’s looking for pills. I said I might be able to get. I’m meeting him behind the town hall in ten minutes. He said he’d buy all I could get. What do you think?” “Cool,” I say. “We’ve got fifty still going, d’you think he’ll want that much?” “Aye,” he says nodding. “He was pretty desperate, none of his mates can get.” “Peachy,” I say unlocking the door. “I’ll be glad to be rid of them, even if we are punting them to a wanker like that.” Stevie waits at the door and I go in to get the pills off Mike. We go through to my bedroom and Mike counts out our thirty personal and hands me the rest of the bag. I hand it to Stevie at the door and he slips out into the night. Dan and Mike and I sit in the living room watching the TV. I take a beer from my bag and hand one to Mike. In a rush of festive spirit I offer a beer to Dan, which he accepts after hesitating for the briefest of seconds. No one talks, we focus on the television and our beers. When the silence eventually becomes too obviously strained I ask Dan what his plans for tonight are. He says Celia is coming round and a few friends to, you know, have a few drinks and watch the New Year being brought in on TV. This inane answer, if anything, makes the situation worse. A deeper and more embarrassing silence sets in and does not seem inclined to budge. The doorbell goes about ten minutes later. “That’ll be Stevie,” I say and go to let him in. He comes in, unwinding his scarf and stamping the snow off his shoes. “Everything go ok?” I ask. “Aye,” he replies and hands me a crumpled fold of banknotes. Stevie, Mike and I go through to my room to divide up the cash and the pills. Ten pills each and a nice fat bankroll for me and Mike. We are happy and laughing, sipping beer. Things have gone exactly according to plan. All the guilt is off our hands, we have pills, we have money. The world is suddenly rolling along nicely. I banish them through to the living room to make brittle conversation with Dan while I get changed. I look at myself in the mirror as I dress. I slap my small but ever-expanding beer gut. It makes a depressingly flabby noise. But, despite it being Wednesday, the Friday feeling has begun to reach a strident and unignorable pitch. I sing Queen of the Highway out loud as I pull on my hoodie and search for my keys. I am ready to roll. Ready for anything. I go back to the living room and plonk myself on the sofa. Mike grudgingly hands a beer to Dan, then to me and finally to Stevie. Stevie blinks as he takes the beer, then frowns as if he has just noticed something. “Mike… are you wearing a pink jumper? We stash our carryout in some bushes behind a wall, deciding to pop into the Wanchor for a quick pint before we head up to Wild Thing’s. “Last visit of the year,” says Stevie. We nod, walking on in companionable silence. The Wanchor however, is too busy for our sentimentality to be practical. There is a close pressed throng of sweaty bodies around the bar which reaches almost to the door. I don’t think I have ever seen the place this busy. The noise is incredible, like walking into a cage of monkeys engaged in a fight to the finish with pack of school children. We look at each other. “Fuck it,” I say. “C’mon, we’ll never get a drink in here, lets go.” We retrieve our carryouts and head up the road to Wild Thing’s. We cut across the park and a gang of kids who look about eleven come over to try and hassle a beer off us. “Hey youse, go and give us a beer!” We ignore them, grinning at each other. “Hey, gi’s a beer! D’you know who my brother is?” “Fuck off you little wankers!” Mike snaps. They retreat to a safe distance and throw snowballs. A particularly large one connects with the side of Mike’s head in a whump of white powder. “Haw! Get that, pink jumper cunt!” “It’s beige you little bastards!” Mike screams and races off after them. He has however, no chance, they scatter into the darkness and Mike slips and goes flying headfirst into the snow. Stevie and I are laughing so hard that we drop our drink into the snow and have to lean on each other for support. He glowers at us as he comes back across the park, brushing a powdering of snow off his clothes. He picks his bag of drink out of the snow and stalks across the park, trying his best to look dignified and aloof. “It’s beige,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Possibly salmon, but it is not pink!” By the time Stevie and I have composed ourselves enough to follow him he is a dot in the distance. Wild Thing shares a house with a timid young man called Colin. It is the third one along in a run down terrace which backs on to the golf course. That Wild Thing lives with someone like Colin has never surprised me. He lives with Colin for the same reasons that he is best mates with the Discopistol. Wild Thing likes to be the domineering one in any relationship. Likes to be the centre of attention, the one that is looked up to. He seems to gravitate to those who obviously lack a little self-confidence and will be a little in awe of him. What with the birds and the drugs and all the generally playing at being The Boy. What this is, is actually a manifestation of Wild Thing’s own deep buried insecurities. Exactly what they are I don’t know, but these are the ways in which they take physical shape. The birds. Not just the fact that he pulls a lot but his whole attitude to women, and more particularly his mates and women. Example: if Wild Thing and one of his mates pull birds that look roughly the same, Wild Thing’s will have been a super model while his mate’s will have resembled Man City striker Robbie Fowler. See, it shouldn’t matter. Everyone knows the truth, what Wild Thing chooses to tell himself is his own business. Thing is, Wild Thing will go on and on about it so much that people will start to believe him. Even people who were there. And pretty soon the poor bastard concerned is being asked by people he doesn’t even know to tell them all about this minger he’s shagged. Another example; if one of Wild Thing’s mates is chatting up a girl, and it’s going pretty well and he thinks he’s doing ok, Wild Thing will come over and sit with him, he’ll go to get a drink and when he comes back he’ll find he can’t get a word in edgeways. Another example, not about birds but connected to the same thing. Wild Thing can dish it out till the sun goes down, but can he take it? No, can he fuck. All mates slag each other, but the point is, they do it in an affectionate way. There are barbs buried in Wild Thing’s remarks like fishhooks. And if you take the piss out of him he sulks until he has levelled the score, until he is one up again. Having said all this though, Wild Thing, if he’s in the mood can be the nicest guy in the world. There have been a few occasions when he has cleaned me up and put me to bed after I’ve puked all down myself and passed out, or when he’s subbed someone fifty quid or so when they’ve been short for the weekend. What you have to remember with Wild Thing is that he is sound as fuck as long as he is in control, as long as he thinks he is The Boy. When he feels threatened, for whatever reason, that’s when his bad side comes out. We can hear the music blaring from Wild Thing’s two streets away. I ring his doorbell, doubting that anyone will be able to hear it inside, but trying anyway. Someone does hear it though. I can see bleary silhouette moving behind the frosted glass. It’s Wild Thing, judging by the state of his eyes, a bit of a mashed Wild Thing, but not so you’d notice. He flings an arm around each of us. “Happy New Year!” he shouts. “Come in, come in!” I feel guilty for the bad thoughts I’ve just been having about him. The little nodule of resentment I’d been allowing myself to build up vanishes in a puff of green smoke. “Happy New Year to you too!” I shout back over the din. The place is mobbed, and I mean mobbed. Take you five minutes just to manoeuvre your way across the living room mobbed. I shake hands and exchange greetings with a least a dozen people I know, half know, and vaguely recognise from school, as I make my way across the room looking for Mike and a place to dump my carryout. I find him sulking in the kitchen, talking to The Discopistol. Much to my amusement he has taken off the pink jumper. I nod to the Discopistol and hide my carryout under the kitchen table where it will hopefully not be stolen. I notice Colin, Wild Thing’s housemate, standing in the corner looking uncomfortable and remote. I give him a thumbs up and he smiles gratefully back. I feel a tug on my sleeve. “You won’t tell anybody will you?” Mike asks, surprisingly plaintive. “About the pink jumper?” I press my lips together and mime locking them with an invisible key. “Not another word, I promise,” I say and toss the key away. “Just one question though?” “What?” he asks warily. “How on earth did you think you were going to get away with it? That jumper was as pink as a poofs convention!” He mumbles something inaudible, which I’m sure contains the word beige. I pat him amiably on the shoulder. “It’s alright, we’ll never talk about it again, ok.” We drink steadily and more people arrive. At first I feel a little awkward and out of place, three or four drinks behind everyone else, but soon enough the steady flow of alcohol begins to loosen me up. The clock on the kitchen wall says nine. I neck a pill. And still more people arrive. The living room is dark and smoky. Lit by candles burning on the coffee table and a string of fairy lights wound through the branches of a Christmas tree. People are crowded together on the sofa and on the floor apart from at one end of the room where someone has set up a pair of decks and is mixing bad techno with a distinct lack of skill. The kitchen is brightly lit from above by a fluorescent tube and full of the babble of a dozen shouted conversations, outside in the garden the night is loud with laughter and drunken singing. Couples hold earnest conversations on the stairs and more basic and physical ones in the bedrooms upstairs. The man from next door has been round to complain, and someone has vomited in the bath. My money is on The Discopistol. I am feeling fine. I came up about ten minutes ago, in an unspectacular sort of a way. No sudden slap in the face, no explosions or fireworks. Mellow, but nice just the same. I make my way through to the toilet in the hall, leaving Mike talking bollocks to this guy in the kitchen who we both know but haven’t seen for two years because he’s been in Australia. The bathroom door is locked so I lean against the wall and wait. I smile at a girl coming down the stairs. “Yeah right!” she snaps and stalks off into the living room. Fuck you too shweet heart, I think in a Humpfry Bogart voice and light a cigarette. Eventually the door lock clicks and the door opens. Stevie Dead emerges with a pained expression on his face. “Ooh,” he says. “Ooh, that wasn’t pleasant.” He pulls his fags out and lights one. “Coming up shit,” he explains. “What d’you think? The pills I mean, not the shit.” He pulls a face. “They’re ok. A bit…” He makes a side to side rocking motion with his hand. “Aye, I know what you mean,” I say. “Want to do another one?” “Why not.” When we have done our business I slap him on the shoulder. “See you back in the kitchen, I need a pish.” He winces. “Piece of advice, try not to breathe in there.” He is not joking. Put it this way, if something that smelled like that had come out of my arse I’d have called an ambulance. Then there was the small matter that, whoever had been shouting into the bath for Huey, had in his recent past eaten a donner kebab. Not a pleasant smell as I’m sure you can imagine. I finished pishing as quickly as I could (although not quick enough to save myself having to take at least one reluctant breath) buttoned up and was out of there. There was a girl, in fact the same girl I had smiled at, waiting to get in. She paused in the doorway and shot me a look of pure narrow-eyed disgust. I just shrugged. I have ceased to be horrified or even surprised by these massive and horribly unlucky coincidences of which my existence seems sometimes to be composed. It’s all part of god’s great plan to make my life as crap as possible. Why fight the almighty, you just have to roll with it, it’s easier that way. I go back through to the kitchen. Mike isn’t there but Stevie is standing in the doorway facing out to the garden, fag in his hand. “Alright?” I say. “You’ll be happy,” he says. “Why?” I say, my brow creasing. “Cally’s here,” he says and nods out into the garden. I follow his gaze and sure enough, there she is, talking to Mike. “What’s that supposed to mean,” I ask, bridling in spite of myself. He just gives me this look and then shakes his head, laughing. I look down for a long moment, strangely ashamed, then look up at him again. “Fuck,” I say. “Is it that obvious?” “You get this really stupid look on your face whenever she’s around.” I feel embarrassed and foolish but relieved too. This is the first time my feelings for Cally have taken concrete form, have had a point of reference outside my own head. Apart from when I kissed her that is. “Nothing wrong with it,” Stevie says in that quiet way of his. “She’s a nice girl.” “Aw Stevie, what the fuck do I think I’m doing? I’ve got no chance. Look at me. Look at her. I’d walk through fire for her, and she’s going out with Chris fucking Fisher!” I shake my head. “What the fuck are we even talking about this for.” “Go and talk to her,” Stevie says. “You won’t stop fidgeting like that until you do.” I get halfway down the steps before he calls my name. I turn. “You have more of a chance than you think you do,” he says, and turns to go inside. When she sees me she jumps on me and gives me a big hug. Over her shoulder I can see her friends giving me dirty looks. For reasons I’m sure I don’t have to mention to you dear reader I teeter on a knife-edge between embarrassed and ecstatic. Fuck them, I think and just go with it. I turn my head and speak into her ear. “Hey, how’s it going?” “Not bad, how are you?” “All the better for seeing you,” I say. Her hair against my cheek feels like spun silk, like all the wonderful things in the world. I am aware of her breasts pushing against me. I make a silent deal with my brain that I will stop killing it with drink and drugs if it will just pleasepleaseplease think of something half way sensible to say. Over her shoulder I see Mike tip me a broad wink. Et tu Michael? I think. “My sister says hello,” she says. “How’s she doing?” “Fine. Are you coming to Starski’s later?” “I think that’s the plan,” I say. “Well, you’ll see her then, she’s heading up about eleven.” Again I have to mentally reprimand myself for falling into the trap of thinking just because she’s in a wheelchair she’s housebound. “Are you definitely going?” “Yeah,” I say. “Promise? I know things have been a bit…” “Promise.” I say, just to cut off what she might say next. “Good,” she says. “I’m just going to fetch my drink I’ll be back in a minute.” When I look round Mike is giving me a lecherous grin. “So what’s with you and her royal fuckability?” I feel a sudden and juvenile rush of anger. “Watch your fucking mouth Combat!” He holds his hands up in a placatory gesture. “Ok, ok, calm down! Jesus Christ you have got it bad!” Oh my god, I think. Does the entire planet know? Have there been announcements in all the major newspapers, twenty-four hour CNN coverage? I don’t get time to reply to Mike because by that time she has returned, bearing a bottle of cheap white wine. He leers at me and I give him the fingers when she’s not looking. We sit on a garden bench for about an hour, Cally in the middle and Mike and I on either side, just talking shit and being silly. My second pill begins to kick in. Wild Thing is mates with some right wankers. Some of them are here. ‘Celebrity’ types if you know what I mean. Well, to say he is mates with them is perhaps overstepping the mark a little. But it is certainly true to say that when he hangs about with them, as he sometimes does, he is not out of place in their company. I watch him talking to them now. There are three of them. One of them is Chris fucking Fisher. I move a little closer, pretending to get another beer but actually getting close enough to eavesdrop. The one on the left (Richard Mathers) who also plays for the local football team is talking. “…So when we get in at half time the manager tells Jamesie to man-mark the boy. Says to him ‘Jamesie, you half that black bastard first chance you get’. So, when we get back out first fifty-fifty ball Jamesie fuckin clatters the boy, aye, two footed, and the boy must have gone about four foot in the air. So after that every time Jamesie was near him it was elbows off the ball. Then everybody started to get in on the act, getting stuck into him every time he got the ball. So the boy totally shits it. Goes over to his manager, looked like he was away to start bubbling, and gets himself subbed off. Aye, it was some fuckin university team. Some nigger exchange student or something like that. Funny as fuck like!” Then the other one (Ross Ogden), who is wearing white jeans and a cream Fred Perry polo-neck, tells a story about how this young girl, about seventeen, was really pissed at a party and ended up going away with one of their mates, and how three or four of them had ended up gang banging her. Fucking her one after another. I look over at Wild Thing, laughing along with them, and for a moment I hate him. Funny, Wild Thing, I think. Terrorising some poor boy to the point of tears just because he’s black, and gang fucking some poor kid who was probably too drunk to know what was going on, a step short of rape because she was too pissed to say no. Then the hate collapses and turns into apathy. What can you do about wankers like that anyway? Nothing. Exactly, now where’s that beer? Later Chris fucking Fisher is sitting on the sofa with his arm around Cally so I go outside into the garden where I can’t see them, to look for Stevie and Mike. I look at my watch. Fuck, I think, we’d better be heading soon. Stevie and Mike agree. We load our coat pockets with beers for the road and go inside to say our goodbyes. I strategically wait until Cally gets up to fetch a drink before speaking to her. I can sense Chris Fisher and Chris Fisher’s wanker mates staring. “Are you off?” she says. “We’ll I’ll see you up there,” she says and gives me a big smile and a quick hug. Wild Thing says there are taxis booked up to Starski’s if I want to wait ten minutes. Fuck it, I tell him, I’m pretty mashed and fancy the walk. And with that we are out of there, crunching through a carpet of snow under a night sky scattered with a billion distant balls of fire. We take a shortcut down by the edge of the golf course. We come out by Esso and cross the bridge. Cars pass, blank windscreens like the blind eye of a cyclops. I look over the parapet. The river is wide and sullen. Silver in the reflected moonlight. Caked with ice and swollen with snowmelt. I experience a strange but powerful urge to hurl my keys over the parapet, but I manage to control it. The queue for Starski’s is long and ill tempered. There is an upsetting rumour circulating that you need a ticket to get in. “Lies!” Mike snorts. “For this shit hole? No fucking chance!” Mike’s reasoning goes some way towards reassuring me. And he turns out to be right, although it is about twenty minutes and fifteen quid before we finally get in. “Fifteen fucking quid just because it’s Hogmanay!” I shout in Mike’s ear. “That’s daylight fucking robbery!” “I know! It’s a fucking joke! You necking another pill?” “Aye, why not.” When we get in we have to queue again. This time for the newly opened cloakroom. I look at the pink scrap of ticket they gave me and gaze forlornly after my retreating jacket, not entirely confident that I will ever see it again. We try and fight our way to the bar, instantly I begin to regret coming here. Eventually, after a thirty-six hour wait, during which the bar staff studiously ignore us, Mike finally manages to get served. “Six double vodka’s and six blue WKDs!” he screams over the thundering din of Build Me Up ButterCup. He pours a bottle of WKD into each glass of vodka and hands two each to me and Stevie. Fuck! I think. Fair enough there’s no point fucking about when the bar queue is that long but I hope I don’t have to buy many rounds like that tonight. We head away from the bar hoping to get a leaning space against the wall, the place is too busy to make getting a seat an option. Halfway there though, a miracle occurs. Someone shouts my name and I see Andy waving frantically from a corner table. “Alright,” he shouts. “Want a seat?” I raise my eyes and offer thanks. Andy is there, so is Craig Lewis and a couple of their mates, Lee Davidson and Terry something or other and this older guy who Mike long ago, and for reasons best known to himself, dubbed ‘The Wank Faced Crusader’. We manoeuvre ourselves round the table, it’s a bit of a squeeze but we manage it. Craig, who I have not seen since the weekend of his party, leans in and taps me on the arm. “Somebody said you were selling pills,” he says hopefully. “Nah, sorry, all gone.” He nods, looking glum and I offer him a fag as a consolation prize. I go for a piss and when I come back have lost my seat to Mike. This doesn’t annoy me. Law of the jungle and all that. It’s a natural way of seat rotation. Everybody has to piss after all. I lean over to retrieve my fags and lighter. As I do somebody taps me on the shoulder. “Alright?” Angie is sitting there, a big grin on her face. “Not bad,” I say breaking into a grin of my own. “How’re you?” “Can’t complain,” she says sipping from a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. “Where’s my sister?” “Oh, she’s still down at Wild Thing’s party, should be up soon.” “Riiiiight,” she says. “I’m surprised she didn’t come up with you. With that Chris guy is she?” “Yeah, think so,” I say, trying to keep the petulance out of my voice. “Loves himself doesn’t he?” “Yeah,” I say. “Bit of a prick isn’t he,” she says and gives me the impish smile again, the one that makes her nose wrinkle just like her sisters, and pushes her dark hair back behind her ear. She grabs me by the arm and drags me up to dance, to my utter horror, to a Robbie Williams song. I jig about like a fuckwit, feeling distinctly self conscious as Mike makes the wanker sign at me from the edge of the dance floor. Angie won’t let me leave the dance floor and forces me to slog my way through songs by Pink, Sophie Ellis Bextor and That blow my whistle bitch song, before allowing me to stagger off the floor and catch my breath. My last pill hasn’t started to come on yet so I neck another one just to be sure. I am at that maddening stage you often get to with crap pills. The dunt you want is dangling tantalisingly just out of your grasp. You’re fucked but you need to be more fucked and you know the pills just aren’t going to deliver. No matter how much you try to convince yourself they are. I neck two just to be sure. I see Cally standing in the queue for the cloakroom, and realise everybody from the party is there as well. I wave to her and she winks at me. “Right, that’s enough rest for you,” Angie shouts. And with that she grabs me by the hand and yanks me onto the dance floor again. When I get back Stevie and Mike are having a slurred conversation which at first seems to be about swimming pools, but in fact turns to be about whether or not octopuses (ok, ok, octopi) can do simple maths. When I get back Cally, Wild Thing, etc have piled round the table making it even more crowded. “Alright sis how’s it going!” Angie shouts to Cally. “Hi,” I pant painfully aware that I am sweaty and dishevelled. “Coming for a dance?” she says. “Wait,” I gasp holding up a hand in supplication. “Give me a minute. I think your sister broke me.” “Ok,” she says. “You’ve got five minutes. You better be ready then or I won’t be amused,” she says closing one eye and wagging a finger. “Meantime, would you like a drink?” “Yes,” I croak, “a pint of iced water.” She raises her eyebrows. “Whatever you say.” I turn to speak to Stevie but he’s engrossed, staring at a pile of change in Mike’s cupped hands. “Fifty, seventy, ninety, ninety-five, no wait a pound, no, fuck-fuck-fuck!” Mike is trying to count out change for the fag machine. “Come on Mike!” Stevie cries in frustration. Evidently he has been trying to do this for some time. “Come on! Octopuses could do this! You’re being outwitted by octopuses! You don’t want to be outwitted by octopuses do you?” “Octopi,” I say. “Shut up! Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate here!” Eventually, after a lot of counting and recounting, Mike shuffles off towards the fag machine, carefully clutching his handful of change to his chest. Cally returns and hands me my water, which I gulp gratefully. “Ready yet?” she asks. I hold up a finger. “One minute.” She puts her hand on her hips and taps a foot in mock impatience. Mike and Stevie return looking forlorn. “The machine’s empty,” Mike says. This is the greatest injustice in the history of the world. “Fuuuuuuuuck,” I groan. “What are we going to do?” “Me and Stevie are going to walk to the garage,” he says with the same expression of self-righteous martyrdom Jesus must have worn while the lead centurion popped to B&Q to buy the nails. “Sound,” I mumble and hand him a fiver. When it becomes clear that wet eyed acclamation is not about to be forthcoming he grumpily departs, Stevie following in his wake. I finish my water. Take a deep breath. “Ok,” I say. “I’m ready.” The first song is some fucking awful Eurotrance track, the name of which temporally escapes me. The second is Billy Jean by Michael Jackson. I jig through both of them with an idiotic grin on my face. The next song is Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits. A reprehensible song, a terrible song. I mumble something incoherent and turn to flee but Cally grabs me sleeve. “No-no-no-no, you’re not getting out of this that easily,” she admonishes. And then she does something totally unexpected. She grabs my arms and folds them round her waist. She puts her arms around my neck and leans her head against my shoulder eyes closed. My first thought is that for the rest of my life I am going to feel good every time I hear this awful, awful, song. Brothers in bloody Arms will now only represent good things for me. Look what she’s done to me, I will have to go through the rest of my existence having fond feelings about a Dire fucking Straits song. I may even buy a copy, arrrrrgh! I blink like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an on coming car. I look over to the edge of the dance floor where some drunken idiot I don’t know is leering at us. He winks lecherously and makes an O with his thumb and fore finger and sticks his tongue through it. I give him the fingers. Fuck it, I think and just go with it. We sway gently on the dancefloor, and I am lost. I am gone. Eventually, the song changes and she looks up at me with half-closed, mascara smudged eyes. She looks like she’s just woken from a deep sleep. “Thank you,” she says. “That was nice.” “My turn to get the drinks in,” I say, and head for the bar. When I get back Cally and Chris fucking Fisher are arguing, jerky head movements and lots of hand gestures. I plonk Cally’s vodka and coke down on the table and Chris Fisher shoots me a look of pure hatred. Bollocks, I think, and leave them to it. I lean against the wall smoking a fag and check my watch. 11:50pm. The year melting away from us like dirty sand in a greasy hourglass. I look around at the sweaty, drink slack faces. It suddenly occurs to me that I was here last year. Scanning the room I realise that most of these people were too. In all probability they will be here next year. And so will I. All at once, despite all the pills, and despite all the drink, I suddenly feel very sober, very tired, and very old. Out of the corner of my eye I notice The Discopistol having a loud and drunken argument with The Wank Faced Crusader. The argument rapidly degenerates into a shouting match. Two bouncers edge slowly up on The Discopistol’s blind side and with one practised move they have both wrists wrenched up behind his back and propel him towards the door. Looking around it dawns on me that this is an exit. A neat way of side stepping the 5-4-3-2-1-Happy New Year bollocks, which suddenly leaves me cold. I find I have no desire to do the rounds of old school aquantinces I never liked in the first place, shaking hands and trading plastic good wishes with these strangers I’ve known all my life. I seize my chance and follow The Discopistol out of the door. He staggers around in circles for a while, throws up noisily, then nodding to himself as if deeply satisfied with the procedings sits down with his back against the club wall and promptly falls asleep. I light another fag from the butt of the last one and stand looking up at the stars, bright and frosty and a million miles away. The music inside stops and is replaced by a muffled voice. The DJ on the microphone, counting down the final seconds of the year. There is a cheer inside, an underwater shout of happy new year, and Auld Lang Syne kicks in. I grin, imagining how stupid everyone looks doing that arms-folded-hand-shaking thing, wondering if Stevie and Mike have been roped into it, then remembering they’ve gone to the garage on a fag mission. I’ll wait a minute, I think, wait till it’s all died down, then I’ll go and say happy new year to the boys. I jump slightly as the door rattles open behind me. Cally is standing there in the oblong of yellow, her hair caught in the light like black silk. “Here you are,” she says. “Bit of a cold place to see in the bells isn’t it?” “I was looking after him,” I say jerking my thumb in the direction of The Discopistol. She looks at him, passed out next to a large puddle of vomit. “Good job,” she says. She comes down off the step and we stand facing each other. There is a long silence in which invisible things seem to be being said, although I have not the wit to decipher them. I open my mouth, and with a rushing suddenness I am aware that I am about to go for it. I am about to say things which I told myself should always remain unsaid. There is a swelling in my chest, a mixture of horror and insane excitement, and I realise that, whatever the consequences, at least a part of me is glad. “Cally I…” I begin, and then someone is shouting my name. It’s Mike. I turn to shout at him to fuck off. The words have actually formed in my mind. Jesus Christ Mike! This is not exactally the best time! But I see the expression on his face. Register the tone of his voice, and the words die unsaid. “You’ve……Got to……” he gasps, panting. He has obviously been running. “You’ve got to come quick……Stevie…” He looks up at me, something really fucking terrible has happened. “Slow down Mike, what about Stevie? What’s happened to him?” I try to sound calm but I’m really starting to freak here. His face. For the first time I notice that Mike has a split lip. “Dinnet,” he says. “Dinnet got Stevie!” There is a cold sinking feeling in my guts. “Is he ok?” Mike grabs my sleeve. “Come on……no time.” We start to run. Behind me I am aware that Cally is running too. Clattering along on high heels. Pausing to take them off. But there is nothing inside me but awful images and a thrumming dread for my friend. The darkened ally flashes past, a collage of shadow, and I am pounding along the high street towards the bridge. Mike grabs me. “There,” he gasps. I look. Nothing. “Where?” I wheeze, the word coming out like a quiet scream. There is blood on the pavement. “There,” he points to the parapet of the bridge. “Dinnet threw him over the bridge. I run to the granite wall and look down, leaning over as far as I can, the corner of the stone cutting into my belly. Bellow is a muddy slope running down to the riverbank, covered with straggly grass and scrubby bushes. At first it looks as if there is a bundle of clothes or a bag of rubbish down there, half in and half under one of the bushes. But it isn’t either of these things. It’s a body. “Fuck. STEVIE!” I shout. No movement. I swing my legs over the parapet and try to lower myself down but as soon as I take my weight on my hands the granite wall skins the flesh off my elbows and I fall, twisting my ankle. Even hanging down from the ledge it’s a good four-foot drop. “Wait! Wait!” Cally’s voice. Thrashing in the bushes behind me as they scramble down the slope. I fall to my knees beside him. “Oh Jesus Christ, Stevie.” I say. He moves in response to my voice, tries to open his eyes. “Stay still,” I say. “Stay still.” He is covered in blood, his hair dreadlocked with it, one of his eyes swollen almost completely shut. “Call a fucking ambulance!” I shout over my shoulder. I can hear Cally on her mobile as Mike forces his way through the last bush. “Yes, ambulance please.” Her voice shaky. “Is he ok?” Mike asks, unconsciously biting his thumb, rocking back and forth on his feet, his eyes huge. “I don’t know,” I say. “Fuck Mike, what happened?” “Dinnet,” he says as if that were an explanation in itself. “We were walking down to get fags and we met Dinnet and Brewster and all those cunts on the bridge. Dinnet grabbed Stevie and started shouting in his face about selling him shite pills, aye, really, shouting. I tried to calm it down but as soon as I opened my mouth Dinnet turned round and smacked me then turned back and head butted Stevie. He gasps and shakes his head, still panting. “They started laying into us and then I was just running. When I looked back Stevie was on the ground and Dinnet was kicking him. Then he picked him up and chucked him over the bridge. Fucked up, fucki…” I grab Mike by the front of his jacket and pin him up against the wall. Cally screams and grabs my collar trying to pull me away. “Stop! What’re you doing?” “Why the fuck didn’t you help him Mike? Why the fuck didn’t you do anything?” He laughs, a cynical bitter chuckle. “What like you would have you mean?” I hold him there for a moment longer our ragged breath condensing in the air, then I let him go and boot the stone wall as hard as I can. “FUCK!” I shout. He is, of course, right. The ambulance arrives, we hear it pull to a stop above us, see the flashing of the blue lights, although there are no sirens. Mike scrambles up to get them and me and Cally stay with Stevie. I smooth the hair back off his forehead and whisper, “S’ok just stay still.” I dip a hand into his inside pocket and start to rummage around. “What are you doing?” Cally asks. I produce a bank-bag with Stevie’s pills in it and hold it up for her to see. “Hospitals mean coppers,” I say. She looks at me horrified. I just shrug. The paramedics arrive, squeezing a stretcher through the bushes. They fire questions at me and Mike. What happened, has he been conscious, has he been talking? Then they tell us to wait up on the road, give them space to work. I don’t want to go but Cally grabs my hand and pulls me up the slope. When I look back they’re holding Stevie’s eyelids open and shining a mini mag-light into his eyes. I pace back and forth, holding my head in my hands. I feel so fucking helpless. Mike gives me a fag, Cally stares blankly at the ambulance as if she’d never seen one before and hugs herself, close to tears. I’m not so far off myself. “This is bad, isn’t it?” Mike says in a low voice, low enough for Cally not to hear. I look at him. “Christ Mike, I don’t know.” “You saw him,” he continues. “Listen, he could fucking die.” “No-one is going to fucking die Mike,” I hiss at him. But in my head I’m agreeing with him. “There coming up,” Cally calls. They bring him up strapped to a stretcher, a plastic brace that looks like two yellow bricks secured around his head and neck. “Is he going to be ok?” I ask the paramedic who seems to be in charge. He looks at me, not unkindly. “Look, I can’t answer that, he needs to get to hospital right away. He certainly has some head injuries which need treatment, but until he’s been properly examined…” He leaves the sentence hanging in mid air. “Why have you got that neck-brace thing on him?” He sighs and puts his hands on his hips. “I think it’s possible he injured his neck in the fall.” “Oh my god! Has he broken his neck? Are you telling me he’s fucking paralysed?” “No, all I’m saying is that his neck needs to be supported just in case there has been any injury.” Panicpanicpanicpanicpanic, all I can think of is the phrase spinal injury. I realise that I am dangerously close to losing it altogether. The paramedic says something which I don’t catch. “I’ll go,” Mike says. “What,” I ask, dazed. “I said I’ll go in the ambulance with him.” I have to make a conscious effort to pull myself together. I take a deep breath. “Ok,” I say. “Ok, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Mike clambers up into the back and they shut the doors. The ambulance pulls away, lights on but no sirens (the streets are dead), leaving me and Cally alone on the bridge. “Are you ok?” She says tentatively touching my arm. “No,” I say. “Not really. I’ve got to… I’ve got to go.” I turn and start walking, increasing pace until I’m almost breaking into a run. I can hear Cally following, calling my name. There is a weird hollow ringing in my head. She grabs my arm, saying my name. “What?” I shout spinning round. Her colour is high, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look more beautiful. “Where are you going?” “Hospital Cally, where the fuck do you think I’m going!” “Oh yeah,” she says sticking her chin out, balling her hands into fists and putting them on her hips, “and just how are you planning to get there.” “Swim! How do you think, I’m going to fucking drive.” “No you’re not.” This is too much. I really don’t need this right at this precise moment. “But…” I begin. “No you’re not,” she repeats. “But Cally I’ve got to.” “You can’t drive, you’re pissed, and that’s just for a start.” “Then what…” “I’ll drive.” “But you’re pissed.” “Yeah, not as pissed as you.” She holds out her hand. “Keys!” she snaps. “I don’t have them,” I sigh, giving in to the inevitable. “They’re at my flat.” “Ok,” she says, softly and takes my arm. “We’ll go there then.” I nod. Suddenly aware that if I am about to start crying. She kisses me on the cheek. “He’ll be ok,” she says. I nod silently and give her a grateful smile, she takes my arm and leads me down the road. Cally waits by the car when I go up to get my keys. The place is a total mess. Bottles everywhere, peanuts and the shit out of party poppers crushed into the carpet. I look in the living room and incredibly, despite the circumstances, start to laugh. Dan is lying flat on his back, naked apart from a sports sock over his cock. Someone has taken the hair band out of his ponytail and made his face up. On his chest there is a neat hand written sign which reads, Stick your log in a frog boys, stick your log in a frog. Bestiality’s best boys, bestiality’s best. Shag a wallaby! I shake my head. I am completely unable to deal with this at the moment. I grab my keys and clatter back down the stairs, unable to completely accept that the whole surreal incident had happened at all. I give Cally the keys and we get into the car. We don’t talk on the way to the hospital. Ten minutes into the journey Cally goes to turn the radio on but I stop her. “No,” I say. “I want to think.” What I am actually doing is praying. Please God let him be ok. I’ll do anything just let him be ok. That thing about there being no atheists in foxholes, it’s true. When the shit hits the fan you get down on your knees and pray to anyone who might be listening to please-please let it be ok. I’ll do anything God, just let him be ok. So we say nothing. I lean my head against the window glass and watch the tracers from the streetlights, purple against the black night sky. It is two by the time we get to the hospital. We find Mike after asking where to go at the front desk. They direct us to the intensive care ward. Bad, bad fish. He is pacing nervously back and forth in a dingy corridor, he looks relived to see us. “How is he?” I ask. “Well, he’s still unconscious, but they won’t tell me fuck all. That’s bad isn’t it? I mean, that’s got to be bad.” “Look, slow down, where is he?” He points down the corridor. “Third door down there,” he says. I start down the corridor but just as I do a doctor emerges from the door Mike pointed out and comes towards us.” “Is he any better?” Mike, who has obviously spoken to this doctor before, asks. “Well he’s stable, doing well, but he is still unconscious. We have to wait for him to wake up before we can make a further assessment.” “When will that be?” I ask anxiously, realising as soon as the words have left my mouth how stupid this question actually is. “Could be anytime,” he says. “Ten minutes, ten hours ten days.” “Fuck,” I say. He drops the professional tone a bit, allows some sympathy to creep into his voice. “If it’s of any reassurance though, it is my opinion that it will be sooner rather than later.” “So he’s going to be ok?” “Well, head injuries are always tricky, but, I would probably say so, yes.” I can actually feel the ice in my chest thaw a bit when he says this. Cally grabs my hand and gives it a hard little squeeze. Mike looks a little like he might be sick with relief. “Can we go in to see him?” I ask. “Not just yet,” the doctor says. Then business like again. “Right we have a few things to sort out. Mr Docharty’s next of kin need to be contacted.” Mike and I exchange a glance. “No need, I’m his brother,” Mike lies. The last thing Stevie’s mum could handle would be getting a midnight phone call telling her that her son is badly beaten in hospital. We are taking an unspoken gamble here, based on what the doctor said about Stevie being all right. If everything comes off alright then Stevie’s mum need never know her son was in hospital. The doctor nods. “And the police are here, they’ll want to talk to you as well.” My spirits sink. His words set off the subconscious guilty panic reaction. The coppers come through and perch on the edge of an uncomfortable couch which is next to the coffee machine. Again, another glance between me and Mike, another unspoken agreement. We say nothing to the pigs. Fuck all. It is Stevie’s decision whether the cops get involved in this or not, his choice whether to say Dinnet’s name or not. His choice, not one we can make for him. We know the drill. So when they ask us what happened we say we don’t know we just found him like that, saw a group of lads running off in the distance, too far away to identify. At one point I think Cally is going to say something and I have to grab her wrist to stop her. The coppers know we’re giving them the run around and are vaguely pissed off but have too much on to really care. After half heartedly trying to intimidate us for a while they fuck off. When they have gone Cally rounds on me eyes blazing. “Why didn’t you tell them about that arsehole Dinnet? I thought you were supposed to be his friend!” “I am his friend, that’s exactly why we didn’t say anything.” I try to take her arm but she shakes me off angrily. “Look, it’s not up to us to decide whether or not Stevie sticks Dinnet in for this. That’s Stevie’s decision. If Stevie grasses on Dinnet there will be consequences that he will have to deal with. If Stevie wants to get Dinnet charged that’s up to him.” “In case you hadn’t noticed,” she spits, “he’s still unconscious.” She shakes her head. “Jesus!” She stalks off to stand angrily beside the coffee machine. I sit down on the sofa and sigh. I realise how fucked I still am, everything seems to be a little fuzzy around the edges. I look at Mike. He’s pacing bug eyed, grinding his teeth, jaws working from side to side. I must have either fallen asleep or blanked out then, because the next thing I know I am waking up. Everything is orangey-red. This confuses me for a moment before I realise that my eyes are still closed and I’m looking at the inside of my eyelids. My cheek is wet with drool and I am vaguely aware that I have been mumbling something. My head is resting on something weird. I squirm and turnover onto my back. I open my eyes and Cally is looking down at me. This confuses the fuck out of me for a second until I realise that I am lying on my back on the sofa-thing with my head in Cally’s lap. “Hi,” she smiles. “You were talking in your sleep.” My first reaction is oh my fucking god what were you saying, closely followed by oh my fucking god you were drooling all over her leg. She smoothes my hair back off my forehead. “Good news,” she says. “He’s awake.” I struggle upright, swinging my feet onto the floor. “Fuck, that’s great, can we go in to see him? How long has he been awake for?” “He’s been awake about an hour. Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you, you looked like you needed the sleep.” “Is he, you know, ok?” She nods. “He’s got cracked ribs and a concussion and his face is a bit of a mess, but yeah, he’s going to be fine.” “Can we go in to see him?” “Yeah, Mike’s in there now.” “What time is it?” “Six.” “Fuck, I’ve bin asleep for hours.” Cally smiles and nods. “Feel any better for it?” I stretch and groan. “No, not really,” I say. Stevie is sitting up in bed propped up on a pillow. When I see him, for the first time since the paramedics arrive, the worry subsides and the anger takes over. A pulsing blind red thing somewhere in my guts, like a tumour made of hate. “Hello, how you doing?” I say. The whole side of his face has changed shape. His face looks as if it has been inflated with a footpump. His right eyes is swollen completely shut. His lips are mangled and there are cuts on his chin. All the flesh down the right-hand side of his face is purple, distended and shiny, like the flesh of an eggplant. His face is more like a monster’s Halloween mask than the face of my best friend. “Alright?” he says. “You look like shit.” He tries to smile but it turns into a wince of pain. Cally moves to the other side of the bed and takes his hand. “You can talk,” I say. He tries to laugh but it’s only a half-hearted effort, despite all the painkillers he’s obviously on his ribs are still hurting him. I can’t think of anything to say, all the conversational tacks which flash through my brain are inappropriate, so I just spit it out. “Stevie, I need to ask you something. Are you going to get Dinnet charged?” He looks down at the floor shaking his head slowly. “No,” he says quietly. We stay with him until he falls asleep. Because of the sedation and the concussion this doesn’t take long. Mike and I have a mumbled conversation in the corridor. Mike will stay with Stevie, will phone his mum if it comes to that. But he thinks maybe Stevie’s mum will never have to know. Never have to know he was in hospital at least, obviously she’s going to see the bruises. I tell him I’m grateful, and he shrugs and smiles. An unusual smile for Mike, not sarcastic or cynical or full of pent up anger, just a smile. A little bit washed out and tired, but just a smile. I give him a big hug, then, to his surprise so does Cally. He walks to Stevie’s doorway pauses, turns and says, “Happy New Year, by the way.” “Aye,” I say. “Happy New Year.” We don’t talk much as I drive back, the radio sings softly to itself. “Glad you’re driving this time,” she says. “I was shitting myself last time.” There is nothing on the roads but snow, we are the only traffic. I look at her out of the corner of my eye, eyes closed, pale skin and smudged mascara, huddled inside a leather jacket which now looks far too big for her, hair all tousled and flowing. She looks wonderful. She catches me looking and half opens one eye, smiling with half her mouth. “What are you looking at?” she says. “Wondering if you were asleep,” I say. She reaches across and takes my hand off the gearstick, interlocking her fingers with mine. She closes her eyes again. “Are you worried about Stevie?” she asks. “A bit.” She squeezes my hand. “Don’t be. He’ll be fine.” She opens her eyes again. “Do you think he should get Dinnet charged?” “Don’t know, I wouldn’t if I was in his situation. Kind of makes us cowards doesn’t it?” There is no answer. She has fallen asleep still holding my hand. She doesn’t seem inclined to let go, and to be fair I don’t exactly try hard to make her. Eventually though, I need to change gear so I have to. I pull up outside her house. I watch her sleeping for about a minute, then I gently shake her shoulder. “Oh,” she says stretching. “We’re home.” “Thanks,” I say. “No problem.” She yawns, and stretches again. “Phone me,” she says. “Let me know how he is. Or, if you’re going to see him I could… you know, come with you.” “I don’t have your number,” I say. She smiles, sleepy but playful. “Then I’ll phone you.” “Bye,” she whispers. Then she opens the door and is gone. I sit for five minutes, vainly trying to collect my thoughts. At this moment in time, I realise, a wholly pointless exercise. So instead I light a cigarette, and drive away into the light of a brand new year.
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