“A pint?”
“Of beer, man, lager.”
He laughed, nodding vigorously. “Sounds like an excellent idea.”
5
I may have had my own room, but even back home it was quieter—we kids had the barn to ourselves and curtained-off partitions gave us older ones a bit of privacy. Of course, they didn’t block out all the sound, but having grown up together, and having had to watch out for each other a fair amount too, I suppose we all appreciated keeping it pretty chilled.
Not so my new housemates. For a lot of them it was their first time away from mum and dad and they went for it big time. So it was with a wee bit of a jaded eye I viewed the high jinks of those early days, though I was careful not to appear too cynical or too much of an arse.
Daniel, on the other hand, was not up to speed on his group psychology. Or maybe he just preferred the quiet life.
I’d encounter a bloodshot Ghanaian in the common room the next morning.
“I hardly got a moment’s sleep,” he’d say. “How can they stay up so late? Don’t they have lectures to go to?”
I’d sympathise, say it would cool down sooner or later, although to be honest I didn’t mind that much. Truth was, I had my own little thing going.
We’d clocked each other by our tribal markings (well, t-shirts) and an appreciation of the weed, begun to venture out together, take in some gigs, check out the skating action along the South Bank. Stay up in my room until all hours smoking and talking shit.
“And this guy, he wakes up and, like, he’s changed into this giant kinda bug,” said Gray, short for Graham.
“Sheeet,” said Cal, a Canadian. “That must have been some kind of trip!”
“No,” said Gray earnestly. “It was before they’d discovered acid. It’s from the 1920s, by some Russian.”
“Czech,” said Jane, who was doing lit. “Franz Kafka. The Metamorphosis. Jew, died in a concentration camp.” She screwed up her nose. “Or was that Freud?”
“Ain’t there that other book, about bug drug people?” said Cal. “The Naked Lunch, Burroughs. Now that was about acid, but in the Fifties. Made into a film. Fucking weird man. There was some English guy too, back in the old days. Some writer—loved the stuff so much he took it when he was dying.”
“We should get some,” said Jane. “Do you think you could get some, Vereesh?”
I took a toke, shrugged. My sannyas name still sounded funny in her posh accent. Funny she was using it at all, in fact. But there it was on my certificates, registration forms, hall register, and although I’d introduced myself to my new friends as “Matt”, as soon as Jane saw it she took to using it because “Matt’s so boring; I know loads of Matts but only one Vereesh”.
I kind of resented her assumption that I was the obvious one to score the acid though.
A door slammed in the corridor. There was shouting.
“ . . . cannot stand this any longer . . . like children . . . ”
“Sounds like your mate,” said Gray.
Through the thin partition we could hear squeals of protest from the clubby chicks, gruff monosyllables from the lads. Daniel had picked a bad night—Thursday. No one went in on Friday mornings, except would-be accountants from developing countries like Daniel.
There was a crash and the tinny dance beat we had grown accustomed to stopped. I winced. Now the shouting was coming from both sides. There was a thud, the scrape of furniture, then silence.
Bugger. I began to pull myself up, half hoping that the others would do the same, but no such luck—they stayed slumped, avoiding my gaze.
I opened the door.
After the initial commotion, everything now seemed eerily subdued. The only light was coming from the kitchen at the end of the corridor, where I could hear muffled, panicked whispers. I approached it with some difficulty, bouncing off one wall then another, stoned out of my socks. Was I actually wearing socks? I looked down.
No.
This was not good, not good at all. I was definitely in no state to mediate between my fired-up friend and coke-fuelled clubbers.
But then I was at the doorway. I blinked in the glare, the strip lights bleaching the scene like a budget horror. There were the girls—paper white, charcoal eyed, lipstick-smeared, all clubbed out. The boys were standing behind them, pumped up, their shirts still clinging with sweat.
Daniel was on the floor, propped against the fridge, his head bent back, a hand covering his nose. Bloody spots splattered his white t-shirt. I crouched beside him.
“Danny,” I said, “are you alright?” He opened his eyes, looked blankly back. He didn’t seem to recognise me. “Where does it hurt?” He took his hand away from his nose, a bloody mess. It was then I felt the dampness through my jeans and looked down. I was kneeling in a raspberry red pool.
“Jesus,” I said, “this doesn’t look good. We ought to get you to casualty.”
“He started it,” one of the girls piped up. I looked at the group again. They seemed sobered by the violence, or at least afraid of getting in the shit.
I went over to the sink and grabbed a couple of towels from the dispenser. I handed them to Daniel. He dabbed listlessly at his face.
“Does anything feel broken?” He gave me that blank look again. “Maybe you’re concussed,” I said. “How does your head feel? I’d better call an ambulance.”
“No,” said one of the girls. “What I mean is, he only hit him on the nose, once, didn’t he? Then he sat down, didn’t you? He’s alright, aren’t you … ?” She didn’t know his name. “You’re alright, aren’t you?”
“Daniel?” He looked me in the eye for the first time. Covering his nose with the towels, he began to get up. The boys and girls drew back. But Daniel was no danger to them. He was no danger to anybody. He rose, surprisingly steadily, and made for his room. It was only as he reached out for the door knob I noticed his hand was trembling.
“You’re sure you’re alright?”
But he didn’t seem to hear. He went inside and closed the door behind him.
6
The night made a mirror of the carriage window. The creaking first-class cabin, the comings and goings of the char wallahs, the sweetmeat salesmen, bewhiskered ticket collectors—they all played their part in our drama. The fat businessman, his well-fed wife and their chubby offspring who pressed me into the corner and no amount of elbowing would shift; the straight-backed Sikh army officer who acted out heroic deeds in my imaginings; the American missionaries who unsettled Ma the most with their friendly inquisition.
“You’re from the West Coast?”
“California,” said Ma. “San Bernardino, originally.”
“And you’ve been in the country long?”
“A few . . . weeks.”
I frowned. I thought it had been longer than that, but then, maybe not—I wasn’t so good with time. Christmas still seemed months away, that much I knew, even though we were already in December.
“It’s a glorious land, isn’t it, so full of colour,” said the nice white-haired lady. “Are you hungry? We brought some fruit.”
I held out both hands.
“How old are you, son?” asked the nice white-haired gentleman.
“Four and three quarters,” I said.
“Well, let’s cut this apple into four slices—it’s alright, isn’t it, ma’am?” Ma gave a strained smile. “One for every year . . . how about you, Tonto?”
I giggled.
“I’m not Tonto, I’m Matthew.”
“Matthew. That’s a nice name. Do you know who Matthew was?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, but Matthew was a disciple of Jesus. Do you know who Jesus is?”
“The Swami?”
“The Swami? Who’s the Swami?”
“Matthew, honey,” said Ma, getting up, “it’s time to go.”
“Go?”
“To the bathroom, honey, come on, take my hand.”
“But I don’t want to go.”
“You need to wash your hands before you eat, remember what I’ve been teaching you? Off we trot.”
She led me along the corridor and into the bathroom. First class or not, it smelt of poo. She took my hands and washed them in the warm, rust-coloured water, crouched down and wiped them on a fluffy white towel. Stopped. Held my hands hard. Hard like her face.
“Remember what I said, Matthew?”
I looked for clues in her expression. All I knew was it scared me.
“No . . . ”
“Remember the special thing we talked about?”
“Ma, you’re hurting . . . ” But she didn’t let off.
“Remember what I told you, Matthew. It’s very important. About talking to strangers, about talking about the Swami. We don’t do that, do we, remember?”
“No, Ma.” I began to cry. “No. Please, it hurts.”
“What do you remember?”
“Ma . . . not to talk. Not to talk about the Swami.”
“You’ll remember now? And not say to people? Like those in the car?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She let go and pulled me to her. “Come here, little toad, come here.” I was back against the softness of her breast, safe in the forest of her hair. “I’m sorry, little toad, I’m so sorry. But you’ve got to remember . . . ”
I pulled the sheets back, gasping. I was lying there in the dark, slick with sweat, my heart racing. I fumbled for the bedside lamp, found the switch, pushed back the night.
I propped myself up, gulped down some tepid water. Christ.
I waited for my breathing to slow, for the reality of my gloomy cubicle to overwhelm the images imprinted upon my retinas. Slowly they faded; the solid, temporal dimension asserted itself. The past had passed. I was back in London, England, in the here, the now. The Rizla papers and spilt tobacco on my desk. My jeans hanging over the back of the chair, their knees dark with Daniel’s blood.
I wheeled my feet off the bed and onto firm ground. Rose unsteadily, testing the heat of my forehead with the back of my hand. Burning. I was burning up. Oh Christ.
The sheets were soaked right through.
Suddenly all my strength seemed to leave me. I sank to my knees, held on to the edge of the bed to keep myself from succumbing to unconsciousness.
Tried to keep my eyes open.
I concentrated on the sheets, glistening now, I noticed. Rivulets were beginning to run between the creases—rippling, they were. I leaned closer, watched the water run, the beautiful swirling, snake-like shapes it made.
My solid twenty-first century world didn’t seem so solid after all. I lurched upright, but the world was still wobbling.
This was not good.
“Mate.”
“Is it drugs?”
“Dunno. Mate?”
I was being rocked. Harder. I opened my eyes.
“He’s awake. What’s your name?”
“Matt. Vereesh. Can’t say.”
“He doesn’t know his name,” said the woman cop.
“You alright, mate?” said the man. “You with us? In the land of the living?” Lights. Blue, white. I realised now: a police car.
“Aye,” I said. “Sorry.”
“What happened?” asked the man. “Do you know where you are, Matt?”
“Where I am?” I looked around. The toughened glass, the mobile phone ad. The red plastic bench. “A bus stop,” I said. “I’m at a bus stop.”
“And where do you think you’re going?” asked the cop, a smile beginning to play at the corners of his mouth.
“Where?” I was trying not to go anywhere, concentrating on clinging on. Staying conscious was enough for me.
“Cos I don’t think you want to be going anywhere, dressed like that, Matt, do you?”
I looked down. I was naked except for my boxer shorts. “I’m cold,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” said the cop. “Where do you live?”
I looked around. Realised. “There,” I said. I pointed across the road.
They were alright, the police. They walked me back to the reception, saw me into the lift. I went back to my cubicle, sat on the end of the bed, shivering. I wrapped the duvet around myself, but it wouldn’t seem to stop. I slumped into the corner of the room. My teeth, now . . . I tried to stop them . . . My teeth were rattling as if I was hooked up to the mains, but I knew, I knew, I knew this was not electricity.
Just try. To hang on.
Awake. My first reaction: relief. I was still there, in the corner of the cubicle, lying on my side. The shaking had subsided. I checked my temperature. I seemed to have cooled down.
I remembered the fever, the dreams, the double-bluff . . . what was real? Unreal? The bus stop came back to me with a shock. Surely that was just a dream?
I eased myself off the floor, pressed my palms to the bed. Well, that much at least was true—it was definitely damp. I examined the soles of my feet. They were black, pocked with grit.
I went to the window, pulled up the blind. It was still dark, but London rumbled on. A bus drew up at the empty stop, a dark figure stumbled out. Cars, cabs, motorbikes weaved around each other. An ambulance zoomed by, its siren muted but blue lights flashing.
And beyond all this, there I was, staring back out of the darkness.
7
I was lying on the hard, scratchy carpet, the duvet covering me like a corpse, when I heard Daniel leave for college.
I tried to get back to sleep, but it was no good. I crawled out from beneath the duvet and surveyed the crumpled scene. Memories of the long, lonely night came back to me, unsettling and unreal in the morning light. I tested the bed: drier, but there were still traces of damp. And the dirt on my soles.
“We’ll call it sleepwalking, shall we?” The policeman’s wry smile as we sat in the backseat of the squad car, the woman writing out the report.
“Poor love, first time away from home?” She handed it to me to sign. “You just take it easy, alright?”
And there was the receipt, crumpled on the desk. I shuddered. First the dip. They found me, they said, nestled half naked in the woods, wreathed with leaves. Now this. I fought a flare of panic.
I couldn’t be having this, I thought, I just couldn’t. London wasn’t like home, surrounded by acres of woodland. There was fucking traffic here. I could get killed.
Cool, I thought, just be cool. Alright, so it was a bit fucking weird but . . . look: maybe it was just the weed. Some dodgy super skunk or whatnot. In any case, it wasn’t so bad this time. I mean, I wasn’t all sick and fluey, knackered like before, laid low. I was just a wee bit . . . light-headed, euphoric even, in a weird kind of way. Actually, BURSTING with energy.
Fuck it. So I probably just overdid the whacky. And even if this flu, this bug, this psycho-flu-bug wasn’t properly out of my system just yet, it was certainly on the way. I would be alright.
I coughed, cleared my throat. “Fuck it,” I said out loud. “Let’s clean this place up, get a bit of order.” I jerked myself upright, got onto my feet, but had to sit back down again as the world spun around me. I waited until it had stopped and took some deep breaths before trying again, this time taking it more slowly.
That was better. I opened the window, stripped the sheets. When the room was back in shape, I took a long shower.
Stepping out, I felt fine. Better than fine: great. I could feel the energy surge through me. Heavens, I thought, I might even go to uni.
I was cradling a hot chocolate in the common room when I spotted Daniel. He was with a bunch of other lads—geeky third-worlders taking serious subjects. I was torn between going up to him and looking down at my phone. In the end I did neither, just sat there and waited to see what would happen.
It turned out one of the lads ahead of Daniel chose to sit at the table next to mine, followed by the others. I gave Daniel a hesitant smile, half-wave. He looked slightly alarmed.
“How are you doing?” I asked. I had the same impression I’d received in the kitchen: that he didn’t really recognise me, or worse, considered me in league with his tormentors. The others must have sensed this too as they visibly bristled.
“How’s your nose?” I said. I hoped the others understood I was the Good Samaritan. “Daniel got in a bit of a tangle with some people in our halls last night,” I said. “Had a nasty bang on the nose.”
“We know,” said an Asian lad with a small goatee.
“Did you go to the doctor, Daniel?”
Daniel shook his head, said a soft “no.”
“Well,” I said to fill the awkward silence, “perhaps you should.”
“I think Danny can make his own decisions,” said the Asian.
I shrugged. “Fair enough.” I pulled out my phone.
Some folks began to gather across the way, rolling out sheets of paper, making banners by the look of things. Having a right old time, they were, like at home when we all pitched in for the summer festivals. One of them noticed me—a pretty lass with tangled hair and a tight t-shirt. She gestured: come on, join in. I smiled, shook my head. Not that I didn’t appreciate the invitation, but I was a bit wary of the whole joining-in thing.
Nice tits though.
A shadow fell over me. Daniel was standing there while the others got their stuff together.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “for causing you any inconvenience last night. Thank you for your kindness.” He held out his hand. His grip was soft but the skin hard.
“Not a problem,” I said. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes,” he said. “Alright.”
“Your nose isn’t as bad as it looked last night, anyway,” I said. “But it looks like it hurts. What are you going to do?”
“Do?”
“Are you going to make a complaint or something?”
He shook his head in puzzlement. “No,” he said.
“Why not? It’s not on for folks to just go bashing others about, you know. If you want to, I’ll back you up . . . I mean, say what I saw.”
The Poison People Page 2