CASEBOOK OF GEEZA VERMIES
OK. I know he has gone to Africa, but that is a fairly large net to cast, let’s face it. I’ve got to narrow it down somehow, to a single country or at least East, North, South, or West. Something. Anything. Otherwise I might as well just give up the chase completely – and I have a funny feeling in my bones that I need to stay with this one.
Last night I spent a night as close to the River as I could get, in a grubby little backpackers’ hostel on the South Bank. The Sun has dipped down again now though, another day gone, and I have retreated to a small pub back across the River called the Apple Tree. It is a cosy little place, filled to brim almost entirely with postmen for some reason. Weird. I’ve got myself settled into a nice secluded alcove with a table and a window and have decided to call upon the aid of a couple of Mick Jaggers which I managed to procure yesterday evening.
I figured that under these circumstances I needed a bit more of a kick. The Smoke’s great, but I wasn’t handling London very well and it just wasn’t cutting through – so many people, so much going on, so many disturbances and so little time.
It’s me that’s at fault, not the Smoke, but there you go. I needed something stronger; I knew that without a doubt.
As I was looking for the Backpacker’s earlier on I had seen a hooded man lurking around underneath that enormous railway bridge near Waterloo Station. As soon as I’d clapped eyes on him I knew what he was up to. Fortunately when I went back he was still there.
“Evening,” I said to him as I approached, quite obviously fiddling with a tobacco pouch, as if to display I was running low. He eyed me warily from beneath the hood, but stood his ground.
“I, err, I was wondering if you could help me out,” I said, again shaking the pouch about a bit. His bloodshot eyes narrowed to slits momentarily. I guess I must have passed his test.
“What d’you want then?”
His body language gave him away to be all street tough and bluster. The same sort you’ll find in any part of any city, anywhere in the World. It is never pleasant having to do business with these types, but there you go. Neither of us wanting to take too long about it I decided to get straight to the point.
“I want to get off my chops mate.” Talk to them in language they understand.
He dropped his guard enough to allow a half-smile break out, and then he put his hand out to shake. It was cold, pale and unpleasant.
“My name’s Simon, but friends call me Charlie,” he said. Bingo. He’d be able to sort me out. “What you after mate?” he asked. “Smoke or powder or pills?”
“Actually I was looking for a bit of acid.”
“Yep, yep; I can do that. How much we talking?”
“Ahh, couple of tabs is all.” He looked disappointed, but I shrugged an apology. “Hey, sorry Charlie, but there’s only me here.”
He tried flogging them for a fiver each if you can believe it, and then kept on reaching into various pockets and pouches, trying desperately to get me to buy some of his other wares.
“Got some wicked strong skunk mate. Dead trippy – could be up your street?”
Eventually I gave him four pounds and came away. The two tiny, cardboard tabs I’d bought were each decorated with a big set of thick, rubbery lips, a tongue and teeth, hence the name – Mick Jaggers.
“Go steady with ‘em,” Charlie had told me as he handed them over in the smallest size of seal-top bag. “They’re good and strong these mate. Can get away from you if you let ‘em.” Sounds like just what I needed.
I thanked him and left and now I’ve banged them both down they do feel quite strong. There’s a good buzz about them, a good kick, and very informative they are becoming, even as we speak - well, even as I write.
I am beginning to detect aromas of a deep, deep earthy smell and looking down into my cup of coffee I can now see a rainbow of browns and tans that wasn’t there before, spinning and circling round and around. The rich scent of coffee fills my nose, taking over my head and quickly consuming my whole body.
As I shut my eyes there are swarms of space invaders buzzing about, dancing hypnotically left and then down, right and then down, left, right, down, left, right, down! Down, down, down! Each time they drop down a row the whole world shakes as if a mountain just fell over. On the walls and table tops of the pub there are pictures, pint pots and ashtrays jumping all over the place, but no one else seems to have noticed.
Gradually these pixelated aliens drop below my line of sight, grinning at me as they go, with only my teeth rattling in their settings and a wispy vapour trail left lingering in the air to mark their passing.
In their wake they leave sets of life sized antlers and horns, tossing to and fro amongst the thickets of coffee which have suddenly sprung up. Next, these antlers start to grow people underneath them - like a horses’ hoof, growing downwards. These then begin strutting down a long, low cat walk in a variety of clothes: blacks, reds and greens, melding and merging and blurring together eventually to take on a wholly safari look.
Once the khaki safari gear dominates the apparel of the antlered models, a host of babbling, overweight figures appears like a mote of dust on my eyeball, swimming and dancing in my vision, yet they disappear as soon as I try to look at them directly. They are ghostly white in colour, that pale, sickly shade that makes people look as if they need to get out in the Sun a bit more – a bit like Simon really, or Charlie, or whatever his name was. Only much, much fatter. Binoculars hang around their necks’ without exception.
Aha! It is becoming clearer now... Black, red and green, somewhere in Africa, where they grow coffee, and obviously have a large amount of safari to tempt the tourists.
It has got to be Kenya doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? South Africa? No, there’s some blue on their flag somewhere. I think. So, Kenya…
And now I’m seeing a kaleidoscope through eyes a good eight to ten inches in front of me. I have a strong feeling that I am going to get well and truly Jaggered tonight.
Sit back and enjoy...
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