Troy gives me a weird look as we go over the tracks. Like he knows something. Not afraid exactly but kind of resigned. I get a little acid jolt up the back of my throat when I turn back from the other side and see the gap in the fence and think to myself what if I never get back there? What if this is a one-way trip?
I already know I messed up worse than I ever messed up before, but I keep on going don’t I? Just follow the others without even thinking for myself and I don’t reckon I’ll ever be able to explain why.
World’s full of mysteries ain’t it? Who made the Earth and the animals and what happens after we’re dead and all that shit, but biggest mystery of all it’s why we do what we do. It’s the one thing we ought to know better than anything else, but sometimes you just don’t.
Charles Bradley (1902–1979) . . . prescribed the amphetamine Benzedrine to his patients in an effort to stimulate the replacement of spinal fluid and relieve the children’s headaches. The drug did little for the headaches, but teachers at Bradley Home observed that it seemed to improve the ability of patients to learn and behave at school. After testing the drug further, Bradley began using it regularly . . . By 1950 he had used it on 275 children and found that it was effective over 60 per cent of the time.
Matthew Smith, Hyperactive: The Controversial History of ADHD
KAREN
It’s the weirdest place I ever been? Over the tracks and over this wall and then through a tiny gap in these massive concertina doors, and by the time we go in it’s getting dark and you can’t hardly see nothing inside. No proper lights or nothing but Troy and Femi they rig up some pissy little lamps like you get on a desk or something and that just makes it worse? Just shadows everywhere? This huge room like a factory or something but empty and dusty and wrecked just full of abandoned shit nobody even wants. Concrete floor and miles of empty metal racks and tyres and bits of cars and small high-up windows made of wrinkly glass that don’t even let in no light. The lamps is too bright to look at – they just make this little pool we got to sit in – and behind us and above us there’s these huge shadows dancing when we move, so spooky it makes your blood cold I swear.
Me and Blaze we go into a little room where you can’t hardly see nothing. He tells me to watch the guy and he takes out his shank, and my heart starts going crazy fast cause I don’t want that, I mean that’s just evil, but he puts it in his mouth and climbs up to a window where there’s a big slatty blind? Takes the shank out his mouth and cuts the cord. There’s a massive SSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHK as the blind slices down, makes my whole body shudder so hard I nearly lift off the ground cause it’s like the sound of an axe or something. The guy’s eyes are almost popping out his head now, he’s just so losing it.
Blaze tests the cord and it looks thin but strong. He gets another one from the next window and shoves the guy down next to a radiator and ties him up. They don’t say nothing. Neither of them. I just want to get out of there, cause I don’t know what’s going on now, I’m kind of freaking?
Back in the big room they’re all sitting on the floor eating and me and Blaze get some and then we’re drinking and it ain’t long before we almost forget there’s a guy tied up next door.
We done all-nighters in weird places before. Just around on night buses or in parks, I mean it’s a laugh. Ain’t scary or nothing cause it’s us everyone’s scared of. I swear, wherever we go if it’s late enough people just run off, leave us to it? But this is different and maybe that’s why we just stay up cause sleeping here, that’s too weird.
Don’t nobody know the way back except Blaze, so there ain’t no option of bailing and anyway, once we all been drinking and Blaze has put on some music from his phone and we got some food inside us I don’t reckon anyone wants to go anyway, cause the feeling that’s making us scared flips over, and on the other side there’s this kind of crazy laughing dancing shouting not caring about nothing vibe that sort of wipes out all the spookiness and makes it feel like a party, like the most secret exclusive weirdest party you’ve ever been invited to, like this ain’t never going to be repeated and it’s almost magic that you got to be there. Like years later people’s going to be saying d’you hear about that amazing night when blah blah blah and you’s the one’s going to be able to stand up and say yeah – I was there.
I mean the days can all just end up being the same can’t they? Monday Tuesday Wednesday on and on always the same. Then there’s something like this and it’s like, BOOM! So why would you walk away? From that? Cause now minute to minute we don’t know nothing about what’s going to happen next, and walking away, I mean that’s like saying you’d rather be dead than alive ain’t it? Maybe you’d’ve done different, but maybe you wouldn’t, cause you can’t know till you’re in it.
No idea what time it is, but eventually when there’s nothing left to drink and it’s proper late everyone just flattens some boxes to put over the concrete and flops out. Blaze whispers he’s got a place for us and he leads me by the hand to this rusty metal staircase in the corner takes us up to like a balcony or something? Looks down over the whole place? And off the balcony there’s like an office, and we go in, and it ain’t half so wrecked as everywhere else, and there’s even a sofa and Blaze lifts me – lifts me like I don’t weigh nothing – and sits me on the desk and I’m about to say that I’m freaking that this is just too weird but then he’s got his arms round me and I’m folded into him and he’s kissing my neck and half the words don’t even come out of my mouth right cause I don’t know it’s like I’m melting. My whole body just melting into him cause he’s just raw and strong and when he wants you there ain’t nothing you can do to stop yourself giving in to the power of it. Nothing.
DAY TWO
Ritalin was first synthesised in 1944 by CIBA scientist Leandro Panizzon. Panizzon’s wife, Marguerite, whose nickname was Rita, used the drug prior to playing tennis on account of her low blood pressure, and Panizzon named the stimulant after her.
Matthew Smith, Hyperactive: The Controversial History of ADHD
THE MAYOR
I’m a handsome bugger. No, I am. Ask anyone, as long as they’re female. Gents don’t see it. They sense the aura, but they can’t tell where it comes from.
OK, so maybe handsome isn’t the word. I’m perfectly willing to concede that there’s a hint of potato about the shape of my head. It’s a trifle too large, a shade chin-heavy, lacking in bone structure, not what you’d call conventionally good-looking. In America I wouldn’t stand a chance, not in politics, but we Brits are better than that.
Women have always been drawn to me. I am talented seducer. Hence politics. For what is politics but seduction on a national scale? As some wag once wrote, ‘Hugo Nelson knows how to find the clitoris of the Tory Party.’ I couldn’t have put it better myself.
I’ve never been much cop at sport. Chasing around after inflated sacs of leather hasn’t ever struck me as a particularly dignified or fruitful pursuit. A man’s pride, however, often pivots on such abilities, especially when young. Everyone wants to be an alpha male. Everyone worth knowing, anyway. If kicking and throwing isn’t your thing, the only other path up that all-important Greek alphabet is bedroom prowess. By which I don’t mean performance. I simply mean that the woman you have on your arm tells the other men in the room where you rank. The more they want your woman, the more they respect you.
Of course, this is all strictly entre nous. A politician can never say such things aloud. The feminist harpies would crush you, roast you over a hot flame, and serve you up with wholemeal quinoa on the food pages of the Guardian. You can’t get anywhere these days unless you’ve mastered the art of keeping a straight face while you pay lip service to every pseudo-oppressed, whinging, scrounging, blood-sucking minority there is. Not that women are a minority, by the way, but you know what I mean. Even when you’ve got a true blue Tory heart, you have to have the tongue of a Trot these days if you don’t want to be slaughtered in the press. That’s just how things are.
Which brings me to the point. Journalists. Bloody journalists. One arriving any minute. Hence me looking in the mirror, straightening tie, checking coiffure, admiring own handsomeness.
It’s this hair that’s the key. Hollywood blond. You have to be memorable. The hair is my magic touch. Faced with a crowd of grey-suited old farts, I’m the only one anyone can remember. If the curse of baldness had struck, I wouldn’t be standing where I am today. I’d be one of the minions beavering away in those airless offices down below. Hard to imagine. I wouldn’t be me, frankly. I certainly wouldn’t be running the greatest city in the world. Substance is crucial, of course – brains, application, ruthlessness, oratory, insight, ambition, etc., etc., – but you can’t underestimate the importance of good follicles. Every ballot box in the world is crying out for a sprinkling of glamour, and in politics just not looking like a lump of dim sum counts as catwalk chic. The bar is pretty low, let’s face it, on the looks front.
The intercom buzzes. It’s Andrea, telling me the journo is here. Good girl, Andrea. Not the sharpest tool in the box, but shapely, biddable and eminently discreet.
I check my hair one last time, admire the view for a minute or two so the journalist feels as if he has been kept waiting, then sit at my desk in front of an official-looking document (checking first that it’s nothing iffy – these bastards can read upside down and they have no morals).
‘Come,’ I say, relishing the feel of the imperative verbal form emanating from my mouth. At home, nobody listens to a word I say. The era of domestic obedience is long gone, like an archaeological stratum lost underfoot, barely even remembered. It is therefore absolutely vital to a man’s ego that he has a job where he possesses employees who obey. The workplace is the only remaining space where a man can feel like a man. How other chaps cope with being a minion at home then a minion at work is quite beyond me. It must devour the soul.
The journalist walks in. I hadn’t even checked the name. I was expecting the usual nicotine-fingered, slouching, chippy bloke with no tie and unpolished shoes – red-brick degree and a hard-on for scoring points over anyone with a hint of Oxbridge in their demeanour – you know the type. I certainly wasn’t expecting this: a female, young, pert and exquisitely assembled. Quite mouth-watering, like a bowl of ice cream waiting for a spoon. She’s got that ball-breaking look, with button-it-in-but-show-it-off clothes, blood-red lips, and a hundred-and-fifty-quid haircut, but I’m the kind of man who likes a challenge. Not wife material, of course, hard work over the long haul, but someone you certainly wouldn’t walk past at a cocktail party without at least testing the waters.
The first tool of seduction is the emission of an erotic signal akin to sonar. Not explicitly audible, it can be sent off in all directions without disturbing anyone, since it only bounces back off objects that merit a place on the radar screen. Few things in life are more exciting than that first ‘blip’ of response.
I walk round the desk to shake her hand. Eyeball to eyeball, I give her the charisma special. The full Bill Clinton.
Methylphenidate’s [Ritalin’s] effects are rather similar to those of amphetamine, which was widely used in the 1960s as a stimulant. It is an interesting reflection on the change in attitude to psychoactive drugs over time that back then amphetamine was widely known as ‘speed’, and viewed with suspicion, rather as Ecstasy is now.
Steven Rose, The 21st Century Brain
THE JOURNALIST
I’ve seen it a thousand times before. That look. Bored, lecherous old man perking up at the sight of a pair of tits. Not that there’s anything to see. I know his reputation, so I’m buttoned up right to the neck, but that isn’t enough. You have to wear a sack on your head to stop guys like this giving you the eye.
‘I don’t believe we’ve met before,’ he says.
‘I’m features. Not politics.’
‘Of course. Of course. This is a profile piece, isn’t it? Do sit. Coffee?’
‘Black. No sugar.’ (I actually prefer it milky, but I’ve found that ordering black coffee makes people take you more seriously. It’s often the first question you’re asked, and it helps to give the impression of gravitas. You don’t actually have to drink it.)
He gestures me towards a sofa in the corner of his office while an underling retreats with our order. Out of his window, there’s a panorama across the Thames that’s one of the best views of London I’ve ever seen. Centuries of history and billions of pounds of real estate all visible in a single sweep – from horizon to horizon one unimaginably complex knot of human endeavour. There can be few other spots on the planet to match it. From up here, the city looks as diligent and industrious as ever – strangely, serenely normal – as if nothing has happened.
It occurs to me that it would be possible for a man working from this office to have no clue about what has taken over the streets. Only a few wisps of smoke, drifting up from the east, give any hint of the chaos. His view is dominated by the tower blocks of the Square Mile, teetering stacks of bankers, millionaire perched upon millionaire.
The mayor sits in an armchair opposite me, a chair which is, of course, a couple of inches higher than the sofa.
‘Not so much a profile as a kind of how-did-we-get-here piece,’ I say.
‘And the photographer?’ he asks, one hand rising to caress his fringe.
‘He’s coming later.’
‘Of course.’
‘So,’ I say, placing my digital recorder on the coffee table between us, ‘how did we get here?’
He laughs nervously, a high effeminate bark that seems to take us both by surprise. ‘That’s very direct. Aren’t you going to soften me up with some easy questions first?’
This is his version of charm, which seems to circle the outer suburbs of flirtation. The attempt is a little half-hearted, as if he knows this isn’t going to work, but it’s almost a reflex. He can’t switch it off.
‘Would you like me to?’ I say, a gratifyingly subtle put-down.
‘No, no. Of course not. So – how did we get here? Well . . . the situation is very grave . . . and . . . er . . . obviously the police are doing everything they can to restore law and order in highly challenging circumstances. Were my people given all the details about this interview? I honestly thought it was just a profile. Not too political. Aren’t you from a magazine?’
‘A weekend supplement. Are you uncomfortable discussing politics?’
‘Of course not. It’s just I’m giving daily press conferences, and this is a time when obviously there’s a huge amount for me to be doing . . .’
It’s clear that I need to change tack. Spikiness isn’t working.
I shift my position on the sofa, leaning towards him as if he is a rare and fascinating specimen I can’t quite believe my luck to have encountered in the flesh. It’s easy to forget, interviewing a man like the mayor, that you have to use the same techniques as on any fragile-egoed actor or musician. If you forget to act as if they are mesmerising creatures who are displaying extraordinary generosity in bestowing their time on a mere journalist, you’ve lost them.
‘Your people wanted a chance to get across the background,’ I say, my voice lower, warmer, breathier. ‘The stuff that gets left behind in the cut and thrust of press conferences. The idea was to give people a chance to see the real you – a sense of how a personality like yours copes under the strain of demanding circumstances.’
I’m now perched on the edge of the sofa, pen poised over a blank page of my notebook, my eyes brimming with expectation and enthralment. I might be overdoing it.
‘Your side of the story,’ I add. ‘The man behind the mask. That kind of thing.’
‘Of course. Quite right. Yes. Naturally, I . . . well, let’s go back to the beginning. I mean . . . in policy terms, since the last riots, we have scored some great successes. This is what’s getting overlooked. We took some great strides forward, thanks to the policies I implemented, but now we are facing a setback. A major setback.’
‘Gre
at strides forward? Are you referring to your policy on Concentr8?’
‘Absolutely. The introduction of Concentr8 was an unqualified success for several years. Schools were behind it, parents were behind it, the medical profession was behind it, the police were behind it.’
‘But wasn’t the Concentr8 policy designed to prevent something like this happening again?’
‘I employed Professor Pyle after the last riots to look carefully into the issue of youth mental health, and with the benefit of his vast expertise, he recommended to me a decisive and effective solution. The medical profession has made huge progress in treating disorders which create disruptive behaviour in schools and in many cases criminal behaviour outside the school grounds. The police know who these people are, teachers know who they are, and guiding them away from the kind of misbehaviour in school that leads so often to petty crime and then serious crime, with a straightforward diagnosis and a tried-and-tested cure, is doing a great service both to them and to society.’
‘But Concentr8 is a new drug.’
‘Professor Pyle is a highly respected figure in the world of mental health. Concentr8 was his recommendation, on the grounds that it has fewer side effects, is significantly cheaper, and is in every way an improvement on other ADHD medications. Support for the programme, from the start, was enormous. The effect on school results and truancy was immediately noticeable.’
The coffee underling, who has entered the office without making a sound, places our drinks between us. I take a sip of the bitter fluid and ask, ‘Is it the job of a mayor to prescribe medicine?’
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