by Liam Livings
She’d stood at the door, arms folded, and asked what I was on and could she have a bit for herself, just to take the edge off the shitty week she’d had. I’d explained it was this new party pill called ecstasy, and if she imagined the best, most wonderful warm feeling filling her body, making her want to dance, that would be about half of the effect.
She used to enjoy chatting to me when I came home the morning after, still pretty on it, chatting, making me tea, giving me cigarettes and asking about how my night had been, what the dances and songs were like nowadays. But we’d never actually got round to her dropping with me. I knew she would have done, eventually, and I preferred she do it with me and Paul, with stuff we trusted, rather than some random guy in a club. So as soon as Dad said he wasn’t coming to Ibiza, I could feel the excitement crackling down the phone from Mum, and the plan was hatched.
The clubbing in Ibiza dropping with Mum plan.
Now, on the way to the club, me on one of her arms and Paul on the other, she said, “I weren’t born yesterday. I lived through the seventies. When I say lived, I mean I did a shitload of acid and danced my arse off around fires and stones with no bra on, camping in a field. So no need to bleedin’ well babysit me, all right, lads?”
Paul got our drinks as we settled on some wicker chairs on the edge of the outdoor room. I asked why Dad hadn’t come and Mum said he’d got so worried about relaxing for a whole week he’d come out in a rash, so he’d cancelled the holiday from work and was now resurfacing part of Lewisham’s High Street for the council.
I shook my head. “Instead of this?”
“He’s as happy as a pig in shit. Honest to God, he is. He’s never been one to relax, has your dad. Not since he relaxed a bit too much in the seventies—let it all hang out a bit too much, if you know what I mean.”
“No…what do you mean?”
“Acid’s a funny thing. Not funny ha-ha, but funny strange. They say every time you take it, there’s this risk the crossed wires it makes in here—” she tapped her head “—don’t uncross when you finally come down. Your dad had a mate who was doing it every weekend. Actually, not just every weekend. Every night, I think it was. And one day he lost himself.” She let that hang there in the air between us.
“What do you mean, lost himself?”
“The crossed wires never uncrossed themselves and he couldn’t get back to the man he was without drugs. He literally lost himself.”
“Is that what happened to Dad too?” This was all news to me.
“No. Nothing so dramatic for your dad. He was the one who saw his mate when he lost it, close up, slowly at first, then not so slowly. Said it was awful sad. Terrible, it was. And since we had you, he’s not touched anything. Didn’t want to lose it with a baby to look after, see.”
“Except pot.”
“Yeah, except pot.” Mum lit a cigarette, offered me one, looked around, asked where the hell Paul was, then sat back in the chair.
“And alcohol.”
“Right, and alcohol.”
“And tobacco.” I smirked at her.
“Yeah, except, pot, alcohol and tobacco, he’s totally clean. Look, point is, he’s not touched anything like the hard stuff, not since you came along. He didn’t say to me, but I think he was worried he’d come here, get on it and risk losing himself all over again.”
“Pills are nothing like acid. Not that I’ve done acid, but honestly, nothing like each other. Speaking of which, when do you want to drop?”
“I’ll follow your lead, love. It’s your home, whatever. And where the fuck is that Paul of yours with our frigging drinks?”
Paul arrived, handed us each a bottle of water, sat on the coffee table between our chairs and explained he’d got sidetracked. He’d been talking to one of the barmen we were friends with, who’d told him about a DJ who was flying back to the UK, leaving an opening two nights a week in one of their bigger rooms. The barman reckoned we should give it a go.
Mum tutted. “I’ve never seen you two work so hard. There was me thinking you were here on holiday, and here you both are, working your little arses off.”
“Wicked,” Paul said, winking at me, which was the sign we always used.
I checked for bouncers, then necked a pill with a swig of water, indicating for Mum to do the same.
After a quick look round, Mum put hers in her water bottle hand and as she took a swig dropped it in her mouth. It was done.
Dropping ecstasy with my mum. It’s hardly an everyday occurrence for most people, is it? I’m sure some of you are thinking how wrong this was. How odd it was. How dangerous. But I didn’t feel any of those things. It was something we’d spoken about on the phone—in code, obviously—before she flew over and discussed again since she’d arrived. I’d explained what it felt like, and Mum had used other experiences to gauge whether she’d enjoy it or not.
We had a really friendly guy who sorted us out for party prescriptions, Jose, he was called. How can someone who’s a drug dealer be friendly? Well, having met lots of other dodgy fuckers, Jose was a pussy cat in comparison, and he only ever served up the best quality ecstasy tablets. One of those and most people would be flying and dancing all night.
Mum had taken half of hers, just to be on the safe side; we didn’t want a puking mother on our hands, did we? So, on balance, it was pretty well considered, pretty well organised, and not going to turn any of us into heroin addicts.
Mum said, “When do we start dancing our tits off?”
I said, “You’ll know when you wanna dance. You won’t be able to stop yourself, trust me.”
“Safe.”
Paul asked how she was getting used to the money and if they were thinking of moving. Mum said she was trying to be sensible and not spend it all at once.
“No plans to come and move out here with us?” he asked with a smile. “You’d be very welcome.”
“Not at the moment, love. How’s this place work, then? The rooms and the daytime/nighttime? When you said you wanted to take me to a daytime club, I thought you was joking.”
Paul explained how the different clubs had various types of music, and how within the clubs there was an assortment of rooms for different subgenres of music. The clubs had become so busy with people wanting to party at night, they had to turn a lot away due to their licensing laws and maximum capacity, so they’d started opening during the day, to attract a different type of clubber, to give everyone more hours to dance during their hedonistic holiday.
Paul finished with, “Clever, huh?”
“Something. It’s definitely something.” Mum squeezed his cheek. “You know what? I think I fancy a bit of a dance. How about you two?”
Paul had been dancing on the coffee table while talking to Mum, and my foot was tapping in time to the music. I could no longer resist it.
We all made our way to the dance floor, holding hands, Paul at the front, Mum in the middle and me at the back, nodding in time with the music. We found a comfortable bit of the dance floor with plenty of room, and got stuck in.
Paul kept checking if Mum was OK, asking if she wanted more water and if she felt light-headed or sick. She shook her head and continued dancing. He turned to me, asked if I was coming up yet, and I told him to calm down and just enjoy the moment. He flicked his eyes to Mum and nodded, in an obvious sign he was worried about her.
I mouthed to him, she’ll be fine, and on we danced.
After a long, sweeping, up-tempo 130 beats to the minute Euro-trance song still showed no sign of ending, Mum shouted into my ear, “Does it, you know, have a chorus? Or is this it?” She waved her hands in the air like the whole club had been doing a few minutes earlier to the crescendo.
“This is it, I’m afraid. You not feeling it?”
She shrugged, her hair nodding in time with the music. “Dunno what I’m meant to feel. Dunno what I’m looking out for. I keep waiting for this big rush to hit me like a train. That’s how you described it, innit?”
It
had been, exactly that. “Stop worrying about feeling it, waiting for it to happen, and just get on with your night. That’s the best way. You’ll know when you know.”
“I’m gonna sit and have a fag. Coming with me?”
“I’m staying. I like this one. It’s nice to be able to dance, not worrying about other people. Having a night off. You gonna be OK?”
Nodding, she kissed my cheek, shook her cigarette packet, then said, “And now you’re worrying about your old Ma, eh?”
“It’s…”
But she was gone, swallowed by the throbbing crowd.
Paul danced opposite me, his trademark wide grin plastered across his face, his big twinkly eyes open, smiling back at me. Not everyone can do that, smile with their eyes, but Paul could. Oh yes.
He blew me a kiss even though he was only feet away and I caught it. Pulling me towards him, he pressed his hard body against mine, and I felt how turned on he was, which, considering he’d dropped a while ago, was pretty impressive.
I continued dancing, letting myself lean into the moment, the physical pleasure of the music, the heat, the love. I shouted into Paul’s ear, “Hope she’s all right.”
Paul held a hand up to indicate he’d be back shortly, then danced towards where we’d left Mum.
I continued dancing, closing my eyes and getting lost in the music.
Shortly afterwards, he returned. “Dancing away. Fine. She’s brought you up and lived with your dad for twenty-odd years, she’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll nip back in a bit to check on her.”
I nodded.
“Wicked.” And then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pill and, with one movement, swigged from his water bottle and swallowed the pill, all with his other hand dancing in time with the music.
“What the fuck you doing?”
“I’m feeling the music. Come on, live a little. Relax.” He tried to grab my wrist.
I pulled away, shaking my head. “We said. We said we’d take it easy. Someone’s gotta be together enough in case anything’s wrong with Mum. That’s what we said.”
“Relax. She’s having a great time. I’ve just seen. Want one? I’ve got more.”
“But…but…”
“I’d given it a good half an hour and wasn’t feeling anything. Reckon these must be duds. Won’t go back to that guy again.”
“Same guy we always go to. Same as always.” I took a deep breath, a swig of water from my bottle and reached out to steady myself on my legs as I was just coming up. I was at the start of the crescendo of the pill; the moment when everything in life was as it should be, every molecule in the world was exactly where it should be and doing exactly what it was always meant to do, giving me the deep feeling of contentment and happiness. It was an all-encompassing happiness that wrapped me up like a blanket, making me want to move every muscle in my body simultaneously in time with the music.
The having-to-move urge is so strong I have seen people dancing in McDonald’s when they’d dropped too early before their night out. They’d be surrounded by their friends quietly munching Big Macs and cheeseburgers while they’re throwing shapes after the leg-shaking and hand-moving have become too much for them to sit still.
I held Paul’s shoulders, took a deep breath to compose myself, said to him, looking straight in his eyes, “Well, I’m absolutely fucked. Don’t know what’s wrong with yours. No more drugs for me at the moment.”
He smiled, lifting his hands above his head, shrugging off my hands, closing his eyes in that unmistakeable display of pleasure he was feeling. “Maybe me too. Good, isn’t it?”
“So why another one?” I furrowed my brow, which, given I was coming up on the best pill I’d had for the last few months, was a huge achievement.
“If one’s good, then two’s better.” He shrugged. “It was there. I didn’t want to wait.”
And with that, my argument disappeared. My argument and my boyfriend, who turned, dancing, walking deeper into the crowd of sweating, dancing bodies, whistles round their necks, glow sticks in their hands, heads shaking, arms waving, legs twitching, they both disappeared.
I realise now, that was the day I lost Paul, but at the time I didn’t know the significance of what he’d done.
I left Paul to find Mum. Shortly afterwards, he returned and suggested we all dance near Mum.
She was in the house music room, dancing on a table, hanging from an air-duct pipe above her head. “All right?” she shouted as she saw me.
“Working, is it?”
“Fucking ’ell, love, if we’d had this in the seventies I’d have never come down off it. I feel so happy.” She massaged her head with both hands while continuing to dance on the table.
“What about the music?”
“What about it? This is all I’m gonna listen to now. Dad’ll go fucking mental.” She hadn’t thought she’d like the music, preferring instead more acoustic songs with lyrics she could hum along to, with a normal verse-chorus structure.
After dancing for a while, we sat in the chill-out room smoking cigarettes and drinking tea from the bar—very popular with many of the patrons. We found Paul getting right involved in the trance room, stood by the DJ booth chatting to the queue of others waiting to put in a request. Then all three of us danced in the trance room, arms round each other’s shoulders, leaning in for a group kiss, eyes closed in time to the music. Mum and I left Paul there and went to the outdoor room and danced under the stars, not a cloud in the sky, staring upwards as we danced and felt the music.
Mum turned to me and said, “It’s like religious or something, this, innit?”
“Having a good time?”
“Fucking right.”
Later, as we stood by the bar getting another bottle of water each, Mum asked where Paul was as we’d not seen him in a while.
I checked and it had been an hour. Since the time when he’d gone missing, I’d changed my tack when he did a disappearing act in the clubs. We’d had a long and very emotional discussion where I’d explained I was worried he was cheating on me, and he’d said, promised on his life, and his mother’s—I found that less convincing than his life—he wasn’t cheating. He just wanted to float about on his own as well as sticking with me. He explained he would always come back to me at the end of the night, that he’d never leave me as long as the last time, and it would only ever be me he went home with at the end of the night.
Despite my asking why he wanted this, why the change, why now we were away from home, he hadn’t quite been able to explain apart from a vague “I want to float around, but I’ll always come back to you.” Which, for wont of any better explanation, and satisfied he wasn’t cheating on me, I had accepted. I felt somehow more at ease with the whole situation, knowing I didn’t have to run around the club frantically searching for him if he wandered off, that he would inevitably find me and all would be well.
As I started to explain this to Mum, he appeared at my side, put his arm round me and squeezed my bum, grinning widely.
He kissed me, then whispered into my ear, “I want you so much right now. How thin do you think the walls are in our place?” He placed my hand on his groin.
Mum turned her back to us and carried on dancing as if her life depended on it. In all fairness, at that point she probably did feel that was the case.
I kissed him back, slow, tongues, mouths open. “Shall we go?”
He nodded to Mum, who was back on a coffee table throwing shapes, blowing a whistle and waving a green glow stick. “Maybe let’s leave it till she’s come down a bit. Imagine her in our living room.” He laughed.
I giggled. “Where did you disappear to?”
“Bit of a wander around. Checking out the other dance floors. Seeing if there’s anyone I know in tonight.”
“And?”
“Nice wander. This is the best room. Nope. Sorted.”
Sorted.
We joined Mum and all was well. Paul’s double-dropping at the start of the evening was forgott
en; nothing happened to Mum that night. Contrary to what the media would have you believe, the world didn’t come to an end; she didn’t become a junkie or suddenly move on to crack cocaine. She continued with her life, with her holiday in Ibiza with us. OK, so the next morning she was a bit weepy, complaining how Dad wasn’t there, and how she missed her mum—who’d been dead ten years—and how she’d never been as close as she’d have liked with her mum, or her dad now she thought about it. But really, honestly, that was all standard comedown operating procedure. Nothing that some sleep, a decent brunch of Spanish omelette in the sun and a walk along the beach didn’t cure.
At the end of her ten days with us, Mum looked round our apartment one last time and said, “Looks like you got it all sorted here. I’m so happy for you both.” She touched the handle of her wheelie suitcase. “If I was twenty years younger, or if we’d got the money twenty years ago, I think I’d have joined you. No chance your dad’s gonna leave London, though. Still, plenty of holidays out here with you two, eh?”
A beep outside signalled her taxi had arrived.
“Right, that’s me. It is all right I come here every now and again, isn’t it? Break from the rain and your dad. See you both, bit of sun and whatever else?”
I picked up her large suitcase. “It’s our home. You can visit any time you want. No invite needed. All right?”
She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “What am I like? I blame you, pouring those naughty disco biscuits down my throat. I’m all at sixes and sevens.”
The taxi beeped again.
“Come ’ere.” She hugged me, then Paul. “You, look after each other, all right?”
***
We had a few weeks without guests until Slinky Simon and his mate Rob arrived ‘on business stroke pleasure’ to check how we were doing with the clubs where he’d arranged our tryouts.
When we met them at the airport, all baggy neon T-shirts and cutoff jeans for shorts, Paul reminded him it was only Amnesia he’d set us up with. “Or did you forget?”