The Afterparty

by Leo Benedictus

  Sorry I’ve been out of contact, by the way. It’s complicated. But at least it hasn’t stopped me writing! Here’s the next bit.

  W

  Saturday, April 2 2005

  05:54

  THE NOISE TOOK so long to arrive that it briefly seemed as though it might not come at all. Then it did. A heavy thud – not loud, heavy. And textured, like a box of books. Mike stared down after it for a while, making little gasps.

  Then, ‘Oh my God,’ he said finally. ‘Oh my God.’

  There was a passing bluster from the wind.

  ‘He just fell,’ said Mike’s mouth, dangling from gazing eyes. ‘Hugo,’ gesticulating now, ‘you understand, don’t you? He just fell.’

  But Hugo had already turned away.

  ‘He just fell,’ said Mike behind him, as their feet rattled down the stairs. ‘He just fell, you’ve got to believe me.’

  Landing. Banister.

  ‘You’ve got to believe me, Hugo. I just said his name and he fell.’

  Staircase. Kitchen. Door handle.

  ‘I tried to get his legs, but he was kicking around.’

  Garden. Lawn. Rockery.

  ‘Hugo!’

  And oh my God there he was.

  But it was no longer a he. It was an it. Lying on its back, arms by its sides, legs at crazy angles – one folded under, another twisted round an ornamental basalt. No real person could lie in that position, it just was not convincing, like poorly executed sculpture.

  And there appeared to be some blood on its neck.

  Mike pounded over.

  ‘I believe you,’ Hugo said. He thought he did.

  There was another little gust of wind. Birdsong even.

  ‘Calvin, are you OK?’ Mike asked the thing.

  It gave no reply. Not a twitch.

  ‘He just fell,’ he added. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hugo said.

  ‘I mean, how can you tell …?’ Mike began, approaching closer.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Hugo screamed, startling himself. ‘Wait!’

  He ran across the lawn to the glass doors and tried the handle. Locked. He ran back past Mike towards the kitchen, adding ‘Wait!’ again, as if to a dog.

  To the hall. Up the stairs. Into the empty first-floor bathroom. Little finger smears upon the tiles. Just a trace of errant powder. Shit. Guests’ coke everywhere. He’d have to clean it all away. If the police came … Well, Mellody was certainly screwed. And she’d just bought that massive … Fuck.

  In the cupboard a large washbag. In the washbag – yes – a mirror.

  Downstairs with it.

  Fuck.

  Media room. Still warm.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  5:59, said the TV. EXTRAORDINARILY SERENE.

  Hugo turned it off. Unlocked the double doors.

  Sorry, he wanted to say to someone. There’s been a terrible mistake. I was just in here. I only went up for a beer. This isn’t supposed to be happening to me. I’m in someone else’s scene. Could we just wind back a page and go again? I’m fine to go again. Sorry everyone. Ready? Ready to go again?

  ‘Did you call an ambulance?’ Mike asked, following in fretful attendance.

  Hugo ignored him and knelt down carefully, crushing a cluster of spring buds into the earth. He wiped the mirror and held it in front of the thing’s nose and mouth, trying not to touch the skin.

  Condensation. That was what he was searching for, like they did in old movies. Condensation. He needed Calvin to breathe, and then get up and be OK. Condensation. No, wait a minute. Condensation. That wasn’t going to happen. This thing was not getting up. This thing had plans to lie here waiting for the world to come and ransack Hugo’s house. Condensation. They would find everything. Condensation. He needed something else. Condensation. He needed Calvin to be dead.

  The mirror was perfectly clean.

  A yellow trickle eased its way through the child-pink gulleys of the ear.

  So this was what it was like, Hugo reflected calmly, to be the villain.

  ‘Hugo? Did you call an ambulance?’

  Michael struggled to speak clearly.

  Still Hugo did not answer. Perhaps he was in shock.

  ‘Did you call an ambulance, Hugo?’

  What the fuck was he doing? Just standing there! Wake up!

  ‘I think he’s dead, Mike.’

  Oh.

  A tide of perfect terror rolled through Michael’s gut. This was it. The stall on take-off, the call from the hospital, the test results, the word in private, the shooting pain down the left arm … He felt dizzy. All of this was so familiar, and yet misplaced. Surely his life was not where all of this belonged?

  He could still feel Calvin’s trouser legs in his hands.

  And was he about to vomit?

  The urge subsided. He sat down in a baffled heap.

  ‘Shouldn’t …’ He was shaking. ‘Call an ambulance anyway? Supposed to do.’

  He reached for the phone in his jacket pocket but found that he was not wearing his jacket.

  ‘It’s pointless, Mike.’

  ‘But,’ he said. ‘No.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Let me call. I’ll call. My phone’s inside.’ Michael stood up to get it.

  ‘Look.’ Hugo stopped him. ‘He fell three fucking storeys on to some rocks! He’s not breathing. That is a corpse. We will call, but it won’t make any difference, so let’s tidy first.’

  ‘Tidy?’

  ‘There’s been an accident, Mike, so when the ambulance gets here, they will bring police.’ Hugo was a natural authority. ‘And when the police get here, they will see the mess from people’s drugs everywhere, and we will be arrested.’

  ‘Arrested?’

  The word did not sound real in Michael’s ears, so he said it again.

  ‘Arrested? But it was an accident! I haven’t taken any drugs!’

  ‘I saw what happened, Mike.’

  And Hugo looked at him with steady eyes.

  And was there something in his voice just then? Something intended? Something not so friendly? It seemed that way to Michael, and startled him, but perhaps he was being paranoid? Stress did that, didn’t it? Made you paranoid? He had to calm himself immediately. He couldn’t. Oh God, he was freaking out …

  ‘Jesus, sorry Hugo …’ His voice teetered unevenly, almost a yodel. ‘I’m freaking out a bit. What do you mean you saw what happened?’

  He was shivering. He wanted to cry.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mike.’ A warm hand settled on his shoulder. ‘Let’s just clear up for two minutes and then we’ll call an ambulance. OK? Everything will be fine.’ Hugo’s face was kind. ‘But we’re not going to save him, Mike. Do you understand? Calvin is dead. Yes? You start in there.’ He pointed to the television room. ‘Pick up any paper or bags or anything you think might be drug-related. Then check the kitchen and work your way upstairs. Flush whatever will go down and give the rest to me. Yes? There’s a loo in the hall, and two bathrooms upstairs. I’ll start on the roof and work down.’

  What was he doing here? Why was he not asleep at home? This could not be happening.

  ‘It was an accident, Hugo.’ The desperation. ‘You saw.’

  ‘Yes, Mike. I saw. I think we should be quick.’

  ‘Where did you put all that coke?’

  The door banged in against the skirting board. A swipe of air burst across Mellody’s face. She felt it on her eyes.

  ‘Hey sweetheart.’ She blinked. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Jesus Mellody,’ he said, sniffing the air.

  ‘Mmm.’ Sulking schoolgirl face.

  ‘Listen. Where did you put Pete’s coke? It was coke, right? In that bag?’

  ‘You want some coke, honey?’

  ‘No, Mell. Christ. We’ve got to get rid of it.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  Hugo was being all serious. Even more than usual. And trying to make her serious too. Why did he have to get so stressed about everythin
g?

  ‘We’ve got to get rid of that coke, Mell. Everything else too. Now.’

  ‘But …’ She had flushed away her drugs so many times. It just seemed wrong. And it was so boring having to go score again … ‘OK, OK,’ she sighed eventually, to get him off her back.

  ‘Where is it then?’ So impatient.

  ‘That’s my fookin coke,’ growled Malcolm from the bathtub.

  Hugo jumped. Literally jumped.

  ‘Fuck, Malcolm!’

  ‘And it’s my smack and all.’

  ‘Jesus. OK. Well either you flush it, or you get out of the bath and take it home. Make your choice, and do it now.’

  ‘For fook’s sake.’ Malcolm rose up naked from the water, dripping like a solemn Poseidon.

  Mellody erupted with laughter, which evolved into a coughing spell.

  ‘Here’s a towel.’ Hugo tossed one over from the rail.

  ‘I’ll have one last hit while you get dressed,’ she said quietly, recovering. ‘All right, Malkie?’

  ‘Fill your boots.’

  But her practised hands were already at work. Kind of a shame Hugo had to see it. Though if he must burst in on people like that.

  ‘So what is the big drama?’ she asked nonchalantly, without looking up.

  ‘Jesus Mell.’ Hugo really was exasperated. ‘Calvin’s had an accident, OK? Either get your shit together or go to bed. You look like fucking Terri Schiavo.’

  Mellody stopped. Malcolm left off toweling himself for a moment. His eyes were back to double brown.

  ‘What kind of accident?’ she said.

  The foil quivered in her fingers.

  ‘A bad one. As soon as that coke is gone I’m calling an ambulance. So be quick.’

  ‘An ambulance?’ She was confused. Tried to lift the blanket off her brain. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s in the garden. He fell.’

  What was Calvin doing in the garden? She hoped he was OK.

  With the towel around his waist, Malcolm hitched the drape aside and peered round it.

  ‘I can’t see him,’ he said.

  Mellody nodded, and gently crushed the tube between her lips. Heated, the dose acquired a melting roundness, then leapt off into a trickle, filling up her chest with rich and comfortable smoke.

  Hugo was saying something to Malcolm. He liked to take charge. Mellody remembered that time when they went sailing with her parents in East Hampton and he …

  ‘Mellody!’

  Oops, now he was talking to her.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Where did you put the coke?’

  ‘Mmm-mm …’ She would not release her breath before its time.

  ‘I’ll go get it, if you’ll just fucking tell …’

  The bathroom door flew open once again, chopping off his anger at the stump. Odd. It was that weird guy from Cuzco, Hugo’s pal. He looked around, pale and desperate, then rushed in, flung up the toilet seat, and vomited mostly in the bowl.

  Though at other times he might have, Hugo did not laugh at all. Not now. Not while thoughts of Sinbad, Renée, Warshak, prison, tears and paparazzi assailed in rapid waves his tenuous calm. And questions: about tomorrow, about last night, about any minute now. Questions about questions about questions. With no time. Which simplified. It made him powerful and sane.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ was all Malcolm was saying, tangling with his jeans, as Mellody grimaced, ping-pong eyed, and strained to regulate her exhalation.

  Finally she succumbed to a cackle of fumes.

  ‘Ha ha ha …’ she coughed. ‘Ha ha … ha!’

  Hugo held his face strictly to attention. He would defend the perimeter.

  ‘Are you all right, Mike?’ he asked, as the heaves subsided.

  ‘I’m so sorry Hugo.’ The reply was almost tearful. ‘I’ll clean everything up. I’m so sorry.’ As Mike spoke, he offered up a fist, unclenching slowly for inspection. At first Hugo did not understand, but then he saw that he was being shown a crumpled cast of napkins, cocktail sticks and bits of fluff that Mike had evidently taken to be drug-related.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and stuffed them quickly in his pocket. They made him sad.

  ‘So where’s the coke, Mell?’ Malcolm asked, now fully dressed, and almost businesslike.

  ‘Oh. Ummm …’ Her voice rose heavily from the deep. ‘I think it’s, um …’ A smiling face gazed. ‘Maybe in the other bathroom?’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Bye all.’ And left.

  Mike was drinking water from the tap.

  ‘You’re Matt, right?’ Mell said.

  ‘Michael,’ said Mike. ‘We met at the club. I’m … I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Enchanté.’ She proffered her hand obliviously, fingers extended to be kissed. But Mike just waved back and tried to smile.

  Hugo looked at his wife, pupils like full stops, scratching at her arm.

  ‘Hey baby,’ she said, noticing his glance. ‘This … It’s just a smoke, you know? For tonight.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘To get through it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  He made his voice sound cold. Agreeing words, spoken with scorn, denying equally the relief of absolution or the satisfaction of a fight.

  ‘Is little Calvin OK?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He gathered up the scraps of foil around her, preferring not to talk about it now.

  Spontaneously, though, he held her head and kissed it. The hair smelled of smoke, and of her own perfume.

  ‘Got it!’ Malcolm bellowed from the floor beneath them.

  His heavy footsteps faded downwards.

  ‘OK,’ Hugo said after a deep breath. ‘I’m going to make the call.’

  He descended to the first-floor living room and picked up the phone.

  His ears thudded. His intestines pumped.

  Outside the window now, Malcolm could be seen wading placidly through paps. The plastic bag swung from his fingers with the careless ease of morning Jaffa Cakes and milk. He stopped to light a cigarette, puffed benignly at his audience, and set off slowly towards Notting Hill Gate.

  The receiver droned in Hugo’s hand. Veins bounced with excitement in his wrist.

  Do it do it do it, his blood impelled him.

  At the brim of the moment.

  On the verge of the stage.

  ‘999 emergency,’ said a bored female voice. ‘Which service do you require?’

  ‘I need an ambulance!’ Hugo opened up the gate and let some panic out.

  ‘Connecting you now.’

  ‘Ambulance emergency.’ This time it was a man who was bored. ‘What number you are calling from?’

  ‘020 7946 3342.’

  The plastic rattle of a keyboard.

  ‘Can you confirm that number in case we get cut off?’

  ‘020 7946 3342.’

  ‘And can you tell me the address of the emergency?’ Lines recited with the sing-song cadences of habit.

  ‘Number 8, Cobalt Street, London W11 8AE.’

  ‘Can you just confirm that address, sir, to make sure I’ve got it correct?’

  ‘Number 8, Cobalt Street, London W11 8AE.’

  ‘And are you calling for yourself or someone else?’

  ‘Someone else.’

  ‘And what’s the problem?’

  ‘He just fell off my roof.’ Hugo ventured a gulp. ‘I think he might be badly hurt.’

  ‘Somebody’s fallen off your roof.’

  ‘Yes. We have a terrace up there, and he was lying down, and then I think he slipped off.’

  ‘OK. I’m just going to ask you some questions now, sir, but it’s not delaying any help. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Is your friend conscious?’

  ‘No, erm …’ And with a tremor of uncertainty: ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Can you tell if he is breathing at all?’

  ‘I tried but … Fuck, I’m sorry. I just don’t know. Sorry.’

  Flustered. That sounde
d good.

  ‘That’s all right, sir. Can you tell me the patient’s age?’

  ‘Er, about twenty-one maybe? I don’t know him very well. Young.’

  ‘And just to confirm: the patient is male.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you with the patient now?’

  ‘No.’

  Hugo made to go downstairs until he noticed the telephone cord tethering him in place.

  ‘OK. Did you see if your friend had suffered any specific wounds or injuries?’

  ‘Erm, his head is bleeding, I think, and his legs are at funny angles. I don’t know. I thought it was best not to touch him?’

  ‘So can I confirm: his head appears to be bleeding and you think both his right leg and his left leg might be broken?’

  ‘I think so, but I don’t know.’ Hugo added a dash of exasperation. A little stiffener.

  ‘And do you know if your friend has taken any drugs or prescription medications in the past forty-eight hours?’

  ‘He’s had a few drinks, I think, but I haven’t been with him.’

  ‘Have you ever received any first-aid training, sir?’

  ‘None. I mean, I think maybe I did once, but I can’t remember any of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. That’s …’

  ‘Are the ambulance people on their way?’

  A frightened interruption.

  ‘Yes, sir. They should be with you in just a few minutes …’

  ‘I mean,’ with flailing urgency, ‘is there anything I can do? I don’t know what to do!’

  ‘You’ve done the right thing calling us, sir. Help is on its way. The best thing you can do would be to stand by the door and let the ambulance crew in as soon as they arrive.’

  ‘Yes. OK. I’ll go and do that. Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  But Michael’s life could not be cleaned up. Once alone with Mellody, to give himself a reason not to look at her or speak, he had started to apply himself with pages of a toilet roll to soaking up his warm, mid-processed porridges of blini, scotch and crab. And it was frustrating work. Double, even treble, thicknesses rapidly grew limp as seaweed in his hand, stirring up the poisonous tang of vomit, which (alone among the body’s excrements) offered no proprietary savour to his nose. After tolerating this for longer than expected, Mellody left the room. But still Michael continued cleaning – now with the help of some Cillit Bang and sponges that his explorations found beneath an artful tiling flap. His work completed, he flushed the mess away, sluicing out the solutes from his sponge inside the stagnant bath. Which committed him, he felt, to cleaning that out too. So he released the plug and watched it drain while wiping round the rim. Grey suds and smoker’s jetsam drifted almost imperceptibly at first, then joined each other in collapsing orbits down towards the hole. When the gurgles finished, just four drowned homemade butts remained, clinging to a raft of hair. Cannabis, Michael supposed; the air was steeped, besides his vomit, in another pungent smell. He wadded each in tissue and dropped them in the toilet, before firing a destroying cord of urine through the mash. Then as the cistern filled itself again, he washed his hands and raised the blinds and Hugo’s second bathroom blazed with virtuous day. But Michael’s life could not be cleaned up. Because now he remembered: