ENORMITY
By Nick Milligan
First Kindle Edition, July 2013
© Copyright 2013 by Nicholas Milligan
All rights reserved worldwide.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher/author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For more information on the author visit www.nicholasmilligan.com
Cover image courtesy of the Hubble Telescope (NASA/STScI).
First and foremost I need to thank my beautiful Amanda for her constant love and support. You are an everlasting source of inspiration and the centre of my universe.
I also need to thank my friends and family members who have shown an interest in Enormity – your frequent inquiries about my progress have fuelled me during this four-year labour of love.
Thank you to Joe and Miriam for reading the first draft of Enormity and providing positive feedback. Both of you gave me extra faith that there was a method to my madness.
enormity
noun
1. outrageous or heinous character; atrociousness; an outrageous or heinous act; evil: the enormity of war crimes.
2. greatness of size, scope, extent, or influence; immensity: the enormity of the situation dawned on them.
Chapter One
Norman is a mobile phone. The name was Dylan’s idea. I suppose he felt it was an unassuming title. Dylan’s humour not only extends to naming communicative devices, but also to the idea of having our very own sex line. ‘Why not give the fans access?’ That’s a justification Dylan frequents. Give the fans access. Why not?
The band has dropped by my apartment for what was promised to be a “quick visit”. Good thing I didn’t have plans.
Dylan, our lead guitarist, turns on Norman. “Four hundred and eighty-seven,” he smiles. That’s about the average. Dylan cycles through the text messages, occasionally stopping to read one. “There’s a few from that Emily chick. Remember the one from Estoria? There’s three from that girl that does marketing for Piper Dawn whiskey.”
While some bands covet privacy, we have Norman. When the mood takes us we can turn on the tap and let groupies trickle forth. Sometimes they gush. Even the world’s biggest rock band needs to socialise.
“Is there a message from those girls at the Waverley gig last month?” asks Emerson from the balcony door. Emerson is our bass player. He draws on the joint in his hand.
“Not sure,” says Dylan. “I think this message might be. Was one of them called Suzanne?”
“I think so,” says Emerson. “Someone put on some music.”
Our drummer, Cohen, walks over to the stereo and puts on a mixtape. Emerson nods and smiles as he draws on the joint again. The song is interrupted as Norman starts ringing. The ring tone reminds me of a Kinks song.
Dylan grins and answers. “You’ve called the Big Bang Theory love line. How may we be of service?”
I can hear a girl’s laughter buzz in the phone, before I join Emerson out on the balcony.
“Big Bang Theory love line,” chuckles Emerson. He hands me the spliff. “We’re going to Hell.”
I take a draw. “Yep,” I agree. “There’s definitely four beds waiting.”
I peer out across the harbour and the neighbouring city. It’s certainly a beautiful part of the universe that I’ve found myself in. This is a vibrant metropolis with a thriving underground culture. There’s some artists with integrity and some without. Some people are cool because they’re fucking cool, not because of the brand of sweater they wear. You just have to navigate your way through society. The girls in this town are crazy. Good crazy, not bad crazy. They’re all beautiful and dangerous. Sometimes I get scared even dipping my toe in the water. It reminds me of the time I went fishing on a trout farm. I caught my weight in fish, but it was a hollow victory.
The city echoes and blinks in this midnight hour, bodies swarming between shadows and streetlights. The water in the harbour looks like oil, black and deep. My mobile phone rings. I pull it from the pocket of my jeans. It’s our manager. I don’t answer.
“Was that Amelia?” asks Emerson.
“Yeah.”
“Probably calling about the meeting she’s been trying to organise.”
“Yeah,” I reply again. “Pointless though.”
“I suppose we need to get our story straight,” says Emerson, as he finishes the joint and flicks the butt over the balcony railing. From this height it could land four blocks away.
“We don’t need a story,” I say. “It has nothing to do with us. The clowns in the media can keep their trapeze to themselves.”
Emerson smiles. “You know what? We need to get fucked up.”
“There’s spirits in the freezer.”
A comedy show plays on the TV and the sound is turned down. It reminds me of an old British sketch show. Monty Python or the like. The Mighty Boosh even.
Dylan passes around a small bag of pills. They’re fairly popular at the moment. Very similar to ecstasy. Barely any come down. We decide to double dunk rather than have just one. It tends to get the ball rolling slightly faster. Cohen racks up a pill and a few lines of gas. That can get the ball rolling too.
I feel the energy begin to well inside me. It’s like ascending a rollercoaster, with pressure building in your chest. Soon the pipe will burst and I’ll saturate the room with love and seemingly logical enthusiasm. The lyrics of the music that hums in the air will take on new meaning. They will transcend the embrace of sound waves and become something spiritual. I close my eyes. One of Big Bang Theory’s songs has come over the speakers. Out loud I’m singing words that I didn’t write, but released as my own. They’re the lyrics of David McComb. They reply to me from somewhere in my childhood. The grass growing, the sun burning, the rain falling and sin leaving fiery little holes.
When I open my eyes again I’ve returned to the balcony. There’s a girl smiling at me from across the table. She’s one of three girls that Dylan has invited over. They were “in the area”. Thanks, Norman. The girl keeps staring at me. She’s clearly taken pills too, as her pupils are non-existent. Black fiery holes. Her friend is over by the balcony’s railing, showing Dylan her breasts. Apparently they’re fake. Dylan squeezes one of them inquisitively. He smiles and says, “They’re fucking amazing. How much did they cost again?”
Emerson and Cohen are sitting next to me chatting to the third girl, who sits at the opposite end of my outdoor dining setting. Things seem cosy between the three. I smile and nod at the girl staring at me, and then push my chair away and walk inside to the stereo and put on some electronica. It adds to the experience. Always seems apt during the witching hour.
The two pills I’ve ingested begin to take full effect and I feel it displace all inhibition. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a rum and cola. Stepping out onto the balcony Dylan rushes to my side, throwing his arm around my shoulder. He’s shirtless, sweating, wearing his skinny black jeans. He gestures toward the girl whose chest he has been assessing.
“Jack, this is Ebony. You’ve got to see her chest. They’re not real, but you really can’t tell. They cost her fifteen thousand!” He leads me, with a sense of urgency, to the balcony railing to meet Ebony’s chest. She smiles at me, her pupils as big as dinner plates. Straight, blonde hair falls down her thin back.
“So,” I say, dryly. “Dylan tells me you’ve had some work done.”
“Yes,” says Ebony. Slowly lifting her singlet top she reveals two perfectly shaped, yet surprisingly natural looking, breasts. She takes one of m
y hands and places it on the left one. I feel her nipple press into the palm of my hand as I study her with my fingers. They do feel incredible. Ebony moves my hand to where I should be able to feel the edge of the implant. It’s definable, but not obvious.
Dylan shakes his head, giving me his ‘Can-you-fucking-believe-this?’ stare. He gives that a lot. He has no pupils either. He swiftly shoves a cigarette in my mouth and lights it. “Dude,” he says.
“Dude,” I respond. Dude is a word I brought with me.
Ebony pulls down her top and says to me, “Have you guys got any pills? I peaked, like, an hour ago.”
“With a chest like that, you’re always peaking,” smiles Dylan. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small bag. “You can have one of mine, but you have to come get it.” He sticks out his tongue and places a pill on its tip.
Ebony smiles as she leans in to place her mouth over his. The encounter goes beyond the simple exchanging of a pill. They continue to kiss each other in a way that only fucked up people can. I turn and walk over to the outdoor setting, where both of the other girls are still sitting. Emerson and Cohen share a joint.
Cohen introduces me to the girls. I don’t retain names very well when I’m this messy. But one is a tall, slender redhead with milky white skin. Possibly eighteen, but she could be any age you want her to be. The other is also a redhead, whose long straight hair and fringe are obviously dyed. But it looks good. She has a petite, lean body and a thin silver ring piercing the left side of her nose.
Cohen tells me they’re both models. They giggle when he reveals this. Embarrassed, perhaps. I say hello to them. Introduce myself. It’s nice to meet me, they say. “Pleasure,” I say. I ask them if they like Big Bang Theory, which I’ll later remember and feel disgusted about. They laugh and say “of course”. I ask them what sort of modeling they do. They do all sorts of modeling. Mostly magazine stuff. Adverts and fashion shoots.
My mind darts backward in time. Once when we were on tour we convinced two female catwalk models to have sex with each other in my hotel room. Cohen and I watched. It was one of the most primal moments of my life. I was quite sober while it was happening so I have a clear memory of it. Cohen was quite drunk, but his eyes were wide. Focused. I suppose it reminded me that civilisation is a facade. At the end of the day, we’re still living in caves and walking on all fours. That’s why dogs are a man’s best friend. They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Perhaps that’s what separates the sexes. Men think like werewolves and women hunger for security.
The redhead laughs and points at Ebony and Dylan, who are still kissing. “Oh my god, she’s such a trashbag,” says the redhead.
“Aren’t you girls trashbags?” I ask.
“No!” says the short redhead, pretending to be offended.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you both seem a little trashy,” I say. They will agree with everything I say.
Cohen laughs. Emerson grins as he draws on the last of a joint. The girls pretend to be shocked, but they’re not offended. In this city, the term ‘trashbag’ is a badge of honour.
As the drugs inside me reach another peak, the rush forces me to excuse myself from the table and walk briskly inside. I step down the hallway and into my bedroom, where I close the door behind me. Two of the walls of my bedroom are mirrored. There’s wardrobes behind them. I look at myself. I’m sweating. Eyes are massive. Skin decidedly pale. More so than usual. I close my eyes and I can almost feel the blood rushing through my veins and arteries.
As I sat talking to the girls on the balcony, a song entered my head. I don’t know why. I haven’t heard it in years. But it’s suddenly taken a hold of me and I’m overwhelmed by it.
I pick up the acoustic guitar that sits in the corner of the room and perch on the end of my bed. I stare at a point on the wall, trying to remember the chords. All I have is the melody.
I begin to sing at the bottom of my register, my voice guttural and deep. I croon the words of a man who has seen the future and where it ends. Drenched in his hedonistic pastimes he watches the fabric of society fray with the smug, fatalistic glee of the Devil. As I sing the words I realise that I can see the future, a growing, black shape in the mist. It approaches and it comes for only me. No one is spared. It finds me here veiled in vapour, across an expanse that has no time or volume that I can measure. I have brought it here and no one will be spared.
My mind begins to whirl with surprising clarity. A revelation. Something that had been lost in the past is uncovered. Like all things. I continue to play with light, picking fingers. The words are in my brain and I remember them. Fists rising up through the dirt. A face that’s aged but I’ll always recognise. A Leonard Cohen song.
Then another melody enters my mind and I use it like a crowbar to open the box. My fingers stop playing and I sing lyrics. It’s another song by Leonard. The story of a man held prisoner by his music, tied down and trapped by the angels that whisper his inspiration. But it’s also a man who finds refuge in music. It both protects and ensnares. The gift and curse of music. A man condemned somewhere in a tower.
I stare into the mirror across from the bed, wondering why a Cohen song appeared in my mind. My drummer’s name is also Cohen. What does that mean? Does it mean nothing? Does it mean everything?
A knock at my bedroom door breaks the spell. I put my guitar down. “Who is it?”
The door opens. It’s the two redheads. They’ve clearly lost interest in the balcony.
“I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt you,” says the tall redhead.
“That’s okay,” I reply. “Come in.”
I’m not sure how long I was asleep. Can’t have been more than three hours. I’m still buzzing way too much. On either side of me sleeps a naked girl. Their long hair spreads across the pillows and on to my shoulders. I sit up slightly. There are thin beams of light coming through the window. My guitar lies on its back in the middle of the bedroom floor. I’m grinding my jaw. Clenching.
The shorter redhead, on my left, has a tattoo on her lower back. Just above the cleft of her buttocks. It’s of a bird. Its feathers are dark, and as I lean closer I deduce that they’re also ruffled. I lightly trace my finger across the tattoo and it stirs its owner. I roll on top of her body, as she lies on her stomach. Her eyelids part. She is looking back at me, smiling. I smell her hair and lightly bite the back of her neck.
The mattress rocks slightly as I penetrate her. She pushes her face into the pillow, in a vain attempt to stifle her moans. The taller redhead wakes up and still drowsy, lies on her back and watches us. Taking a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table, she lights it and rolls on her side, propping her head on her hand, long red hair cascading down her naked chest. She drags on the cigarette, studying us, before finally saying in a soft voice, “You both look so beautiful.”
Two suns burn somewhere beyond the shade umbrella. I can feel the heat of the day radiating through my aviator sunglasses. It’s only two hours into the afternoon but I’ve decided to take a pill. I can feel it kick in as the waitress approaches my table.
I’m a regular here at Zunge Bohne. It’s walking distance from my building. I feel a slight pang of guilt because I slept with this waitress a few months ago and I’ve completely forgotten her name. Total mind blank.
“How are you, Jack?” asks the waitress, her blonde hair up in a ponytail.
“I’m very well, gorgeous. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” she replies. “I’ve had a lot of assignments.”
“How have they turned out?” I ask. I believe her name is Rose.
“I think they’ve gone fine. So are you staying out of trouble?”
“I’m trying... but it’s not staying out of me.”
The waitress, whose name I decide is Rose, rolls her eyes.
“Just a black coffee,” I add.
“Anything to eat?”
“No, not at the moment.”
Rose smiles. “I’v
e never seen you eat.”
That is technically not true. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“Depends what you’re offered?” she asks, wryly.
I smile. “So how’s that coffee coming along?”
Rose turns on her heel and walks away. Not entirely professional table service banter, but she knows I won’t complain to her manager. Like most people who aren’t from my rock band world, she has been raised to distance herself from drugs and those that digest them. I was pretty fucked up when I met her. I suspect she feels I used her for sex. I got what I wanted.
Rose is nineteen. I remember that. I think. I remember her naked body. The shape of her breasts. Her hips. Her thighs. She told me I didn’t have to wear a condom so, of course, I didn’t. Like so many girls I sleep with, I felt some small connection with her. But any emotions are lost in the whirlwind blur of my drug use. I imagine things that didn’t happen and forget things that did. Looking at her now I’m reminded how stunning she is. I took that for granted.
I reach for the newspaper that’s been left at my table. Despite my lowered ability to concentrate, I scan what’s making news. The lead story on page two is about a man, a wannabe militant, who booby-trapped his front door with a homemade explosive because he was suspicious that his elderly landlady was sneaking into his home when he wasn’t there. They only found parts of his landlady, who was mostly disintegrated in the explosion. She had been entering his home. I guess he wasn’t crazy after all. The substance that the tenant used to create the explosion was not illegal and his landlady had been trespassing. It’s believed he won’t face any charges. Loopholes, baby. They’re a very popular hole.
The front page is equally gruesome. Five catwalk models were in an elevator when a malfunction caused it to free-fall over forty storeys. Three of the models lived, but they were each paralysed from the neck down. One of them lost an arm. From looking at the photo of her she already didn’t weigh much. One was killed on impact. The other was launched through the roof of the elevator and decapitated by a flailing cable. ‘Model Carnage’ reads the headline.
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