He wants to know if I need a top-up. I nod . . . I prop myself at the bar, twenty years old but already a respected poet! A lover of several women! A great artist, expelled by the blinkered intellectuals of one of our finer art colleges, who wouldn’t know genius if it walked up and punched them on the nose! A force to be reckoned with, King of the Pissers! Jerry refills my tumbler and leans in, conspiratorial. . . His face: jowls of desperation.
‘You know who you remind me of?’
He looks over his shoulder, he has no eyes. I wait with baited breath.
‘John Lennon!’
I stare through my Scotch, the light, I look it up and down . . .
‘I lived with him you know, Liverpool, ’61 . . . in the same digs, rough days, but colourful . . . Me and John, phew!’
I eye my assailant, put my glass down and smile into his mug. Who does he think he’s trying to kid? Him with his John Lennon routine? Sure thing! Boy, you’re really impressing this kid, Jerry! You knew John Lennon? Well well, you must be quite a man yourself! Yeah, John Lennon! the Cavern!
The lights go funny and I have to stop listening. I lay my heavy block in my folded arms and kiss the bar . . . And the noise goes on, the show, Jerry’s mouth, the TV producer, the importance of being famous. I have to be careful not to vomit . . . In truth I’m pissed, I watch the room revolve . . .
They load their cameras. They lose their microphones. They trip over their own cables, a light explodes. A little theatre. The light meter doesn’t work . . . They trip over it, acres of film, like elastic. The hicks behind the lenses.
And then I see her, three rows back, blond hair, braids of real gold and her nose at that certain angle — my Norwegian princess!
I have to turn my face in disgust and knock back another gobful of Scotch. So, she’s here again, my little tormentor — Sanchia, love of my life! Well, I tell you, you will be mine tonight, my friends, that platinum princess! She will be mine again! Sanchia, the property of the Great Pisser! And she will admire me and praise me above all others! I announce it for all to hear. I stare into the bottles and tip another glass. I scowl and stare them all down: my enemies, my friends, my loved one. I give myself to you all!
Jerry takes my arm and leads me to the stage. He announces me. I turn up my collar and light another cigarette . . . I check me hair and I blow smoke like a professional. I walk up there and bark my stuff out, with venom, with zest . . . The cameras, they whirr and splutter — the tape snaps, but I carry on regardless. I kick at the chairs and piss like a fountain. A pisser that sounds! An inspiration, with a bladder like a medicine ball! I mix my metaphors, chin jutting . . . I forget my syntax, stumbling over all of my ‘fs and ‘th’s . . . a regular pain in the arse!
There’s no sense preaching to a bunch of half-wits like that, an audience who knows nothing of poetry! Nothing of a young writer’s pain and suffering! An audience that ladens its living rooms down not with real paintings but with reproductions!
I burp and bow and fall to the ground. I bounce my head on the stage and have to laugh at them all, sitting there sipping on their gins, wide-eyed and pathetic!
I walk to the bar and sulk into my beer, a pint of the dark stuff . . . I need a nurse, a cutie. I demand the attention of that woman who dared deny me! I have proven my genius, now get on your knees and admit your mistake woman! Come crawl before me and take my cock in your mouth, and maybe I will see fit to forgive you your indiscretions! I stare at the back of her golden head and will her to turn and look at me, for her throat to tighten and for her to fall to the ground, choking. And slowly, she stands and turns and actually looks at me, but her beautiful eyes don’t tell me she loves me. They stare at me and scream, ‘You fool! You sad stupid fool . . . How could you believe that one such as I could ever love you, for in truth you disgust me!’
She turns and walks out towards the toilets. I wait ’til the door closes behind her, then jump up and push my way across the room. I spill beer over it. I crumple toes and get to the door just as it shuts me out. I stand there, light one up and wait. I fold my arms and pace the boards.
What the fuck’s she doing in there, is it fucking rag week or what? I try the door, I huff and I puff, take a deep breath and expand my chest. I practice looking nonchalant. I flick my ash and smooth my hair back, then try the door handle again. Some bloke comes up behind me and I pretend to be humming . . . staring back at his face. I dare him not to look away. I half grin and laugh to myself, just like I expected as much. To show him how lightly I take the ways of women. Then the door opens and she stands there . . . I stand back and smile.
‘How did you like my reading?’
I look at her and to the ceiling, shaking my head around like a rattle.
‘You’re not honest with yourself!’ she says, evenly.
That’s the way she talks, her exact words — she doesn’t beat around the bush, she comes straight out with it. She sets her jaw and defies me. I explode with laughter, loud, way too loud . . . To show I don’t care, to make it obvious. What the hell do I care what a mere girl thinks about me? I examine the inside of my mouth, tonguing my cheek, I chew on something, raw, a fragment, stuck. I place my hand on hers, gently.
‘OK, sweetheart, come on, you’re coming home with me!’
And she laughs and pushes past me, in front of everyone. I have to step after her, to grab her arm, to force my face into hers. She gags and screams up my nose. She sets her feet and pushes me off. I claw at her wrists, dragging her towards the doorway . . . No one must see my weakness.
‘You’re coming home with me!’
‘Let me go!’
I apologise, I plead, pulling at her arms. I follow and encircle, until the whole fucking show turns into some hideous kind of waltz . . . I grin through my mask and try some romance: I make small talk, I infiltrate . . . I light up, I offer her one, playing the big shot. I blow smoke then snatch at her bag — it somersaults and empties itself, revolving in slow motion . . . I have to make a grab, stumbling through the lipstick . . . I need air, the room is killing me! We must be outside, alone, together! I’m dying . . . I need air . . . I’m fucking dying! My legs buckle, I’ve no strength . . . I’m fucking dying!
The idea was for her to love me. To hold me, to kiss me — or I’ll fucking kill her! And the crowd stare on in disbelief; they look from the back of my head to their drinks. Watching. The people, the audience . . . I give them a show. I panic, then grab her. I’m weak . . . weak, weak, weak . . .
The door frame saves her. She digs in her nails and grips the paintwork . . . I can’t pull her through; I try, but I can’t. She wedges herself in and kicks out at me. I plead with my dumb eyes then I feel it go, I’m losing my hold . . . my fingers cramped . . . I have to surrender, to help her pick up her lipsticks . . . to get on my knees and mumble, to apologise. To get out of this building, this world, this light. . . To vacate these people’s faces — the eyes that accuse.
The tears sting my eyes and I exit without her. To get out of this building, to dip my body into the fog and breathe the mud cool air . . . I choke on it, burning my throat, the little iced tears. ‘Good fog, you are my friend, fog, hide me, for you are my saviour!’ And I sag by the doorway, wringing each of those tears from my poor burning chest. I bathe in that hot self-pity, sobbing for myself, for the terrible injustice that has been perpetrated against man. For the damning stars . . . for the rancid gift of life, the dirty trick of God!
And I long to be dead, to be truly dead, to teach that bitch some manners, to learn her some fucking pity! To show her how a real artist suffers — a young writer cut off in his prime. To sleep the eternal sleep, only to awaken to hear her apologies, her pitiful admission of guilt, crying to the world how sorry she is, and how good, brave and honest I was.
And so I walk up to God and demand an explanation, and sock him straight in his deceitful little kisser!
‘You messed up when you ditched this one, Sanchia, ’cos he’s a fine one, one of the best
, a true one, one in a billion! Painter of poetry and a writer of vision! Artist and genius extraordinaire! But I forgive you, you poor naive child, for you are frail and mortal. And how could a mere girl realise her mistake? I shall carry this burden for you . . . Bring flowers to my grave and I shall suck milk from your unworthy bosom . . .’
I sing in ecstasy, blubbering to myself, for one so pure, yet defiled, a soul misunderstood. I suck my snot and dribble it back out through my trembling lips . . .
Dear God, that such a fine one as me could be treated so bad! My integrity questioned and tarnished by that shameless harlot! I bite down on my hanging lip and howl with the pain, crying little sobs of joy . . . I feel for the blood, looking with my fingers, but with disgust I find none.
If only you could see me now, Vincent, driven to this, to the depths of sorrow, to the edge of my own self-destruction! Ah yes, we’re wed to it, boy, us artists of the heart. Our fine noble souls in abject misery! I’ll give myself misery, misery for her to regret! I’ll give her monumental misery, the sort to break the hearts of impossible princesses, all the princesses of the world!
I marvel at my own unabashedness. The universe could never spin above a head more sorrowful. But I accept it gratefully, for such is the weight on the shoulders of all great writers; and I wrench another great sob of pity from the heart of one so innocently true as me.
I hear voices through the fog. They’re looking for me. I have to wipe my face, to smile. To light up a cigarette. They come and pull me to my knees, lift me out of my dribblings and load me in the car. They lay me out on the back seat. I want to play hide and seek, but they collar me. I let them lead me away, back through the fog, up over the escarpment.
And the one in the back, my companion, feeling the weight of the world, tries to chuck himself out onto that wet black road. He unlatches the door and pushes off. I just grab his sleeve before the fog swallows him. I drag him back in, out of the cold claws of the mist. He blubbers, he cries, he puts me to shame . . . passed out, drooling on my lap.
The bitch! And that could be me, back there, kissing the road! And her at my funeral, she would have to be there with her shining blond hair, a black veil, and a tear . . . And the knowledge in her breast of a great wrong done me . . . of her responsibility at the death of such a sensitive, snatched so young from this bitter world . . .
We zig-zag through the pea soup, my cheek on the wet window. It took us some time to find the dump. The fog lamps gave up and died, impenetrable . . . impossible meanderings in the dark. You couldn’t even see to read the street signs up that mountain, treacherous! It would be easy to get yourself lost up here, to drive yourself ’til the road peters out, then nothing . . . the wolves and beyond . . . We follow the tarmac and the house numbers . . . We hang from the window with a touch ’til we find the right door number.
We lay our friend out in the corridor, adjust his collar, straighten his feet and find the Scotch bottle. I console myself. I just double check that he’s OK, I look down into his kisser, such a dainty sleeper, his little tootsies crossed and two delicate mitts parked over his belly. Content in sleep, a little puckered smile on his lips. God bless you. I push a couple of coins into his pocket, light up another and give a little sigh. That’s a habit I’ve learned: sighing . . . It comes with bitterness, I suck at my teeth and let it out. . . pour myself another drop of the poison, it’s time to be off, back out into the night. It swallows us, wet tongues, hideous, all enveloping. I’m licked all over.
The driver grips the wheel and swerves through the fog; he can’t see straight, a regular hovercraft. We’re heading for Gillingham. Where’s Gillingham? Three miles . . . through the pea soup, up under Luton Arches . . . then Chatham hill . . . From one catastrophe to the next, a big risk . . . We swerve. I check him sideways, he’s pissed, bulging eyes, two closed headlamps . . .
We’re cranking along in second, no breaks and he’s dropping off, nodding at the wheel. I go to speak but he tells me to button it. He’s not impressed with my great wit; the show’s wasted on him, he curls up on the dashboard. I force a smile. I pinch the edges of my mouth together, chin up, that’s it, that’s the ticket! I swallow it back, staring into the passing clouds . . . There must be angels out there, someone to fill my dark suit.
We’re looking for luminosity . . . a million lights . . . hollow joys . . . the gigglings of youth. The big race is to see who can destroy themselves first, our stomachs souring on cheap plonk . . . To find happiness as if it were only a little mislaid trinket glittering on the street; to rid ourselves of another evening of innocent dick-pulling.
I find beer and prop myself in the doorway. So this is Gillingham, what do you know? Some place they’ve got here, this Gillingham of theirs. Well well . . . I acquaint myself with the tin, scowling in my corner. The cuties gyrate by, all tits and arses, colliding, desperately trying to convince themselves that they’re having a grand old time, that they’re young and beautiful, that they shall never have to die. And I want to believe you my darlings, to become an accomplice to this lie. To drop to my knees and kiss your dimpled thighs, and implore you never to leave again, to set your feet and fly your hair like banners!
Yes, my sweethearts stay with us for always, in this house, caught for always in this very moment. Because if you ever leave, dear children, you will have to remember, and to remember -well, it’s sad to remember, so sad to have been young, to have been happy, to know that everything has changed.
I bite into my cigarette and spit tobacco, flakes and paper. I flex my brain, lock my jaw and will this sick sad world to stop dead. To bring everything crashing to a halt — the talking, the bragging . . . To shut up all the big shots, so that I can step in like a god and fuck their women . . . But the world just carries on regardless. And the girls? Well, they pass right on by with a toss of their golden locks and a twitch of their buttocks, and they don’t even bother looking back.
But one little pug, I get the notion that I know her. I recognise some of the angles. I quit picking my nose and follow her comings and goings. I’ve seen that delicate shape someplace before . . . her arse on a spring, with a big split, grotesque! I have to sup my beer, get round in front and measure up her pug. I manoeuvre round the room, I get frantic, I can’t get it down me quick enough: that’s my nature.
The lights are pretty dim in this dive, and the fog doesn’t help, seeping in round the window frames, coming in under the doors, mixing with all the smoke, adding to the general effect, to the haze. I push through those good timers, I forget that anyone else exists. I’ve no time for the dreams of others, I have to get round in front and measure up her ugly kisser.
I peer through the mist and squint; I stick my neck out, making all kinds of contortions, shameless, unabashed. . . I sniff the bottle . . . I inhale . . . I bug my eyes . . . The world goes sideways, my funny head . . . Hey, what is this shit? I make a grab, I stumble.
‘My name’s Dolli.’
‘Hello, Rosy!’
‘Dolli!’
‘Hello, Rosy!’ I repeat myself.
I say hello, I oggle her. I have to hold myself up, to loosen my grip and stand on my own two pins. I flex my retinas, focusing through the fog. It seems that she’s not from round these parts, some kind of Turk, I should imagine. Almond eyes, black, sucking in all the light. . . and a harelip. It makes me look twice, that lip of hers. It seems to join straight onto her nostrils, that’s the effect. I feel my own lip with my tongue, that’s me: super-sensitive! I like to join in, to get involved, to show some sympathy. I think I recognise her, and her name, Rosy?
‘I know you, I’ve seen you before. I asked about you. I recognised you.’ I tell her, I make sure she understands my sympathies.
She looks me up and down, this little dark one, she soaks me in . . . I knew I was right, her eyes sympathise, it seems she’s short-sighted.
‘Are you alright?’ she’s asking me, she’s speaking to me now. I go dizzy, I want to fall to her knees.
; ‘Sure, I’m fine, fantastic! Never felt better!’
‘Oh, you poor man, you’ve got a hump!’
What’s that? A hump? I pull myself upright. A what? A hump? I straighten up and look over my shoulder. She’s got to be kidding.
‘Oh, I remember you, you’re the man that does the paintings, aren’t you?’
Now, she’s talking to me about my paintings. I nod, light a cigarette, straighten my back and try not to breathe on her. What the hell was that stuff in the bottle, paraffin or something? It made my heart go for a gallop. I went up and I crashed down, landing on this little cutie in the process. I remember her now, I’ve seen her hanging around outside Chatham Station. I recognise the sea-saw between her arse and those throbbing tits. Everything teetering, balancing on that pivot. . . It all comes back to me, I’ve seen this one before alright, yes, my friends, Chatham station! I think.
And she likes my doodles. Say, that’s not bad! That’s a sign . . . I have to hold her attention, to become her centre. I do a loop . . . It’s the whisky taking effect, and that potion in the magic bottle. I can’t help it . . . So, I’m a pain in the arse? I’ve been sick and sad . . . I’ve been down and out, now I want to have a little fun.
I tell her of my day, this Rosy, of how it was. All the pricks and their crummy cameras! The TV men? They knew nothing, absolute jokers, didn’t know their arses from their elbows! They were fools, mere groundlings, I flattened them with my superior wit! I stop in mid-sentence and check for effect; I get on my high horse and won’t climb down, not for nobody . . . She supresses a yawn and excuses herself. I’m left standing at the mantlepiece and she doesn’t come back.
Hey, that’s twice in the same evening! I have to go in search of my cutie, through the throngs, the gyrations, the fog and the din . . . And here she is, holed up underneath the kitchen table.
My Fault Page 26