by Paolo Hewitt
As it was, I snapped out of my trance, took out some drinks and, making towards the counter, I noticed the girlie magazines on display which hastened my journey back to Aretha considerably. I went straight up to the counter, and asked for a pack of condoms with a brazen approach I would never have thought was within me. The bemused look on the guy reminded me of the bar woman at the club but I simply didn’t care about what he or anyone else, come to that, thought, such was the high. I fished out a fiver so I wouldn’t have any problemos with the coinage again, received my change, went back to the cab and we drove back to my yard. In my front room, I put down the drinks, and we eagerly started kissing, only this time Aretha made no fuss as I slid my hands onto her cheeks and pulled her even closer. Then I guided her into the bedroom.
I have to say that sex on E bought out a side to me which I had never experienced before. We literally ravaged each other, lasciviously licking the other’s body, both of us ravenous for scent and sensation as we explored each other with a fervour that I wanted to last forever. As we vigorously coupled up I suddenly found myself whispering into her ear all kinds of instructions, demanding she tell me of her fantasies and desires so that we could satisfy each other to the total max. When she related her story of how she met a stranger on a train and within half an hour they were both locked in the toilet, her on the sink holding on for dear life as he rammed into her, that, people, was the end of phase one. Twenty minutes later, I found myself nuzzling up to her, pushing myself against her side and making signals she could not ignore. Truth be told, phase two was even tougher and dirtier, finding new positions, utilising certain bits of clothing, the lust never wearing off as sensation after sensation came through until, finally, we lay there on my bed, exhausted, sweating, our minds whirring away at a hundred miles an hour, until, unbelievably, John Thomas stirred once more and phase three began. At eight that morning I fell into a light sleep and when I awoke with a start, Aretha had just pulled on her underwear
‘I thought I’d just nip out and get some cigarettes,’ she explained. I got out of bed, encircled my arms around her and began kissing her neck. I moved my hands up to her breasts and massaged them through the thin material. Then I stood back and undid the clasp on her back.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m too tired.’
I continued removing her bra and then turned her to face me as I buried myself into her chest, pulling her down onto the bed and not even bothering to remove anything else as I moved her legs apart and entered her. After, we both fell into sleep and when I awoke with a start it was because I was now sober and every part of me was exhausted beyond belief.
‘Hi,’ she said, cheerily.
I just wanted to curl up and drift off into darkness. ‘What time is it?’ I grunted.
‘Two o’clock. What time we going out tonight?’
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. All I wanted was to be solo. I had no words to say to her, nothing to talk about and, people, that is such a horrible sensation to feel towards someone, especially when you’ve just done the do and made rash promises that you wish your mouth had never uttered. My jaw throbbed badly, my mind was on a true downer and all I wanted was oblivion. As we made polite afternoon conversation, Aretha started to sense my disinterest and although she tried to revive me with numerous cups of coffee, she could see the task was hopeless.
God bless her, though, because, still acting like everything was hunky dory, she placed a little kiss on my cheek as I lay in bed and said, ‘Perhaps I’ll see you next week down the club then,’ and left. I knew I was in the wrong but my exhaustion outweighed my guilt and I struggled back to sleep. The world had suddenly gone from radiant colour to a very horrible grey and it was only at nine that night, when I stumbled out of bed, did I realise that there was a message for me on the answer machine. It was Sandra.
‘Hi. I’ve decided to go over to Trinidad for a holiday and weigh things up. Whatever I decide will stand. I’ll call you when I get back. Laters, loverboy.’
Her tone was polite and firm but the message, although I was in no state to realise it at the time, was devastating. Fact is no West Indian goes back to their island for a couple of weeks if they can help it. They stay for as long as possible. By the time Sandra arrived back in the country it would be legally impossible to terminate the baby. She had already made up her mind and she knew it. She was going to have my child. At that precise moment in time I had no inkling of this. All that came into my mind, as I briefly pondered the situation, was the line of a Lennon song my mum used to sing around the house.
It ran, ‘Nothing’s going to change my world,’ and that for better or worse, was exactly how I felt.
Part Two
COLOUR ME LOVE
18 Months On
This was when I loved up London the most, when the sun blazed down from an azure sky of such staggering beauty that the people seemed to hit the relax mode and lose all their burdens, for even if you held no cashola, which is the biggest drag there is, just to be a character in such an oil painting was a rare treat in itself. That Mary in ‘Brief Encounter’ certainly hit the spot when she went into one about Britain being so much better to live in if the sun came out and about a lot more, and quite right too, madam, for the heat, like a great massage, loosened up all the glum faces and tight mouths as smoothly as a top burglar picking locks. Invigorated by the disappearance of winter’s grey skies, which depressingly blended in with so many of the City’s buildings that it made you wonder if the architects of these drab, grey edifices had never been introduced to colour, everyone seemed to re-energise themselves as they were reminded just how beautiful the world can be. It was a welcome respite from the intolerable strain of winter but, even so, there was no getting away from the fact that this heat, which now spread itself so languorously over town, came from a different kind of sun, one that gave off a dry and brittle heat that no one was used to. Apologies for hitting the same riff but there was something slightly disturbing about this relentless heat because that summer, as the sun’s harsh rays mingled with the city’s fumes, cyclists flashed by with huge pads of cotton wool stuffed in their mouths, a flash of a future that I didn’t want to live in, and confirmation that severe adjustments in our way of life would have to be made, no doubt about it, if we were to enter the next decade in some kind of shape. Over at Papa’s, in endless cappuccini discussions, Brother P. and I debated the changes that we could sense in the air and tried to make sense of all this shifting scenery, but, unfortunately, and much to our distress, we were constantly interrupted by the raging arguments that erupted every time Papa and his son were within ten yards of each other. Paolo, a good looking 14 year old, who had been blessed with his father’s large eyes and his mother’s delicate facial features, which was topped off by a lustrous mop of curly, jet black hair, would be sharing a capo with us, his football bag ever present and correct, when Papa would shout over to him, ‘Eh, the football season is over. Where do you think you’re going? Don’t you think you should be helping out your famiglia?’
‘I’m going training, Papa,’ the reply would come, Paolo not even bothering to look over to his illustrious padre.
‘You’re going training? Training on a day like this when we’re rushed off our feet, sweating like pigs to put food in front of you. What about doing some training for here? Eh, what about that? One day this will be yours and then what you going to do? Eh! Answer me. And what about me and mama. You ever think about us when you’re training? You ever think about us when you’re kicking a ball around all day? What is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with me, Papa, except the father I was given,’ and then Marissa, who had been carefully clocking the argument, would put down everything and quickly stand between the two of them before it really got out of hand, and tell them to act like grown men instead of bambini.
‘Stop it now,’ she would command as Papa shouted at the top of his voice that his son had no respect, and that he would teach him a lesso
n, and Paolo responded by turning his back on him even more.
Brother P. and I never interfered, as you can imagine, but I have to say that my votes were with Paolo. To most people, his dream of playing the professional seemed a thousand miles away but, as he always insisted, and quite right too, why shouldn’t he realise it? Others had, why not he?
‘It’s only yourself who stops you in this life,’ Paolo told us, so bright and clear for a boy of his age.
‘Even if I fail, so what? I tried and that’s more than most people even attempt. But I’m good enough. I know I am. I feel it. Here,’ and he tapped his heart twice with a confidence that was proud and, I have to say, not a little inspiring.
‘See,’ he continued, ‘I don’t know why but I’ve always been haunted, from an early age, by the thought of getting old and realising that you never did in life what you really wanted to, never even tried it, just thought to yourself, ah, I can’t do that and left it at that. A whole life wasted because you talked yourself out of your purpose. That’s terrible. Papa doesn’t see it because he achieved what he wanted but it’s not what I want. It’s unfair to force it all on me because I never asked for all this in the first place.’
‘He’s only doing what he thinks is best for you,’ I put in. but, really there was no need to articulate such a sentiment because Paolo knew that and, despite all the hot words and the raised fists, the stinging insults and the botheration, the fact remained that, deep in their hearts, they loved each other up fully and would always be there for each other if the crunch really came down.
Both knew it but both wanted to prove that love in different ways.
‘You wait until I make it, Papa will be so proud,’ Paolo prophesied. ‘Don’t tell him but a scout has already put in an offer for when I leave school. I was top scorer in the league last year.’
‘That’s great,’ Brother P. said. ‘Does Papa know?’
Paolo scowled. ‘These days, he refuses to come and see me play. I don’t think he’s seen me on the pitch for two years now.’
‘The fact of the matter,’ Paolo continued, picking up his bag and collecting himself up, ‘is that I will make it, no doubt about it,’ and, I have to say, it was hard not to be impressed by the boy’s utter certainty in himself, for at a tender 14 years of age he already knew where he was going and few people twice his age, possessed that fact. Papa was not impressed with his departing son.
‘Marissa,’ he shouted, ‘I’m going to see Father Espositio tonight. Perhaps he’ll be able to to talk some sense into his stupid head,’ and he stalked back into the kitchen, leaving me with the thought that maybe I would be better off with the priest’s counselling, for the truth of the matter was that Sandra had arrived back from Trinidad some 10 months back, set on course for motherhood.
I had parlared with her on three separate occasions, the worst time being the first time we met up in mid July, to supposedly discuss if she was going to go ahead with the birth, this meet up taking place in a chainstore pizza parlour. Her stomach had now started to noticeably swell up and, when she finally walked in, after keeping me waiting for twenty minutes, the sight of her condition caused a rumble of rage to go off inside me. I tried to hold it down, bite my tongue and act civil.
‘Alright?’
‘Alright.’
She ordered garlic bread to be followed by ice cream whilst I settled for a cappuccino and, hopefully, the confirmation that she would soon be out of this condition and back to normal.
‘How was Trinidad? Your family okay?’
‘Oh, I had a great time.’
I reached for a cigarette.
‘I’d rather you didn’t if you don’t mind, I’ve given up.’
‘Sure.’ A silence, and then, ‘So did you come to any decision while you were away?’
‘I’m having the baby, our baby. It’s too late to stop now even if I wanted to.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well you can’t get an abortion after 13 weeks.’
I felt the ground give way beneath me as it came to me how she had brilliantly bamboozled me.
‘You knew before you went away, didn’t you? All that stuff about wanting to think things over. It was bullshit. You tricked me. You fucking well tricked me!’
‘Sorry,’ was all she could say.
I stared at her in complete disbelief.
‘Can’t you see that I’m not into this at all. Can’t you open your eyes and see that. What is wrong with you?’
‘I don’t care,’ she coolly replied. ‘It’s my body, my decision. That’s it.’
‘Your body, our baby. Doesn’t anything I say mean anything to you? It’s like talking to a fucking brick wall. Don’t you understand I want nothing to do with this? Can’t you see it from my side of things? You’ll be bringing it up single handedly. I ain’t helping out. I want nothing to do with it. That’s it. Final, finito, over and out, lovergirl.’
‘Why are you so scared of this?’ she asked, not even raising her voice but coming like she was an interested doctor trying to coax things out of a wayward patient.
‘Why do you run away? Don’t you want to see your own child grow up and be a part of it?’
‘Look,’ I said wearily, ‘we had a thing going for a couple of months, alright? That was it. It was nice while it lasted, and all that good stuff, but all I know is that it didn’t go the distance. One of those things and end of story. Now what point is there in prolonging it?’
‘So, I’m not good enough to bear your child is what you’re saying. I’m okay to fuck for a couple of months but God forbid that I should bring your precious children into this world.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You don’t have to, dear. I know where you’re coming from. The slightest problem and that’s it, off and running.’ Sandra gave out a cruel laugh and then sneered at me.
‘You men really are something else. You walk around like you own the world and everyone in it. Then something happens that doesn’t fit into your little plans. Someone comes along and asks you to, and I really hate to use the word in front of you, take some res-pons-i-bility for your actions and you get shit scared. Pathetic, the lot of you.’
‘Not as pathetic as bringing unwanted babies into the world.’
The waiter had just arrived with the order and so had no idea why the slightly overweight woman he was serving, with one magnificent sweep of her arm, swept away everything he had put on the table, plates, cups, cutlery and food, and sent it all crashing to the floor, the deafening noise silencing the whole joint.
‘My baby is not unwanted,’ Sandra screamed. ‘You may not want it but this baby that you helped to make is going to get everything in life, whether you’re there or not. And don’t you ever insult me like that again or I swear on my mother’s life I will kill you.’
‘Not,’ I said, standing up, ‘if I kill you first,’ and then I walked, leaving her crying at the table, ice cream spreading slowly around her feet.
I spoke to Sandra twice after that unhappy occasion and both times the rows erupted like volcanoes, and so I simply blanked her. I left the phone on the answer machine, ignored her messages and threats and got on with my life. To be God’s honest, and I know this sounds a little jittery, but I was far more interested in what was going on down at my place of employment, The Unity Club, than spending time and effort on this ugly business. For, without warning, the scene I had witnessed, and taken part in, down at that South London venue with Dillon, had been repeated all over the country. It took some time but the acid house kick had taken off in Manchester, Bristol, Leeds, Glasgow, and every other major spot in the country. The combination of house music and ecstasy had proved to be spot on, creating a brand new movement not witnessed since the punk days, and it was only right and proper that in a world where we have to recycle if we want it to carry on, the scene should be born out of a similar process with the attitude coming off a ’60s vibe – peace, love and spiritualism – and the fashion recalli
ng the ’70s. It needed a drug to bring it to life and ecstasy fitted the bill perfecta. That small white pill gave you such huge energy, confidence and spirit that it forced you to shed all inhibitions, and in no time at all, the elitist attitude that had pervaded the Capital’s clubland for years was gone, as a new breed of clubber came into being and turned the town upside and down.
Populist and addictive, clubs now thrived on a new energy that was electrifying. You would walk into joints and the music would be pounding away whilst the people stood on risers, chairs and tables and let off big time. In the prole parlance of the scene, a lot, and I mean a lot, got right on one matey and let loose some wild stories, that I now must relate.
A regular couple I knew from The Unity, a Greek guy and his English Rose of a gal, were caught by security guards, early one morning, loving it up in the Natural History museum toilets after a night on the pill.
A fellow DJ was offered a spot at a rave somewhere in the country and, for the first time, dropped an E, to get himself into the spirit of things, just as he reached the secret venue. He hung around the place for a bit and then went back to his car to collect his records. A search party found him an hour later in the back of his four wheeler, record sleeves scattered around him as he lay slumped, actually caressing his tunes and telling them how much he loved them up.