The Afterparty
Page 30
‘You not got any white? Giles’s was always white.’
‘No-ho.’ He laughed the word. ‘S’all right, though. I’ve got some citric if you need it.’
‘OK.’ She sighed.
He dropped a little morsel on the scales. It landed, and shook off a layer of dust.
0.844 g.
He dipped the corner of a card into the plastic, and slid off another tiny golden helping.
1.096 g.
Holding the package beneath the edge of the scales, he gently scraped a ridge back in.
1.010 g.
‘Close enough.’ He grinned.
‘Thanks.’
Carefully, the man folded a square of paper into an envelope, swept in the heroin, and tucked it closed. After this he rewrapped the block and returned it to the washbag, from which he also produced a handful of citric acid sachets.
‘Have you got a needle?’ This was so humiliating.
The man raised his eyebrows.
‘You not got one?’
‘No.’
‘All right. I only got one new one left, but you can have that. Giles says you’re good for the money. Zat right?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right, then.’
He looked at her carefully, like something for sale.
‘You’re married to that Hugo Marks, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
She slipped the goods into her pocket.
‘I knew it was you! Mellody, right?’
His manner had changed utterly. He was repacking his bag with childish excitement.
‘That’s right.’
‘With two Ls?’
‘Yup. Two Ls.’
‘Giles said you was one of his important customers, and I thought I recognised you! What you doing down here, then?’
He handed her a syringe. It was long and narrow with a bright orange cap.
‘I’m on vacation.’
‘Right, OK. Yeah. It’s pretty round here.’
‘I guess so.’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
He seemed to be searching, with great hopefulness, for some strand of sense in her behavior. Evidently, he had not seen the news.
‘Anyway, enjoy that,’ the man said, pointing at her pocket with his finger. ‘It’s good stuff. I better run, but say hello to Giles when you see him.’
‘Sure. I will. Thanks.’
She opened the door, and he loped off indifferently into the sun.
OK.
Now back into the kitchen for a spoon. Blood fluttered in her guts. It made her want to pee. She bounded up the stairs to see to it.
And for a tourniquet?
She sat down on the toilet.
No scarf. And her belt was too wide.
Pulling up her jeans, she snatched out a rag of tissue, wiped, and left the bowl unflushed.
Bedrooms: clean smell, no cords on the drapes.
Downstairs: cupboard: just sticks and galoshes.
Kitchen … an electric kettle. That so British thing. A chalkish yard of flex from plug to charging base. She picked it up, with some Evian and other items, and struggled to the couch. Using a credit card, she crushed and plowed the powder on the table into guessed-at halves, then one half into quarters, a quarter into eighths, eighths to sixteenths, and a sixteenth into two experimental hits, the babies in a family tree. One chosen share she coaxed into the spoon, and dribbled citric acid gently on it. Now the needle’s cap came off – nicely, with a puck. She plunged its point into the Evian bottle, drawing water to the 4, and then reversed the action, pushing out a hairline jet of drink to take the drug. Lighter next: flicked on, and left to stand upon the table, its flame a ripple round the teaspoon’s silver hull, sizzling its contents’ edges in an instant, then gradually stirring up the center to a dirty seethe. The smell, the smell, of candied pickled corpses, spread into the air. And by the time Mellody, having forgotten wadding, had picked a piece of filter from a Marlboro Light, her dose was cool. It quenched the fluff on contact, making it dark and emptying the bowl, before she pierced the filter with the needle’s tip and sucked it white again. Now finally she had the liquid captured, glimmering a muddy gold beneath the measures in her tube, which she tapped and squirted slightly to squeeze out any air.
With great gentleness, she placed the needle on the table, rolled her left sleeve up and hesitated, staring for an outbreath at the kettle flex, before noosing it at last around her upper arm and pulling tight, soft plastic chewy in her teeth, untethered base and big plug jostling around her breast. Her left fist pumped, her veins bulged green and pornographic. The needle’s point slipped easily through soft and ticklish skin, a tiny plunger tug confirming what she knew: a feathering of red inside the tube. Got the blood in one. Mellody released her tourniquet a little. A prod to test and … oh … plunge home the rest … oh, oh …
And she was lost.
A reunion to make her cry with joy.
How much she had missed you.
Picked needle out. Mopped weakly smear blood.
The fire was ringing. A pulsing lovely glow of sound.
Oh, it was the telephone in her bag that was ringing.
Ring ring. Ring ring. Hello?
‘Hugo,’ said the screen. Darling Hugo.
Now you press the green button.
‘Zello,’ she said.
‘Mell.’ His voice. ‘I’m so glad you answered.’
‘Ahhh …’ How nice. ‘I am too.’
‘Where are you?’
Clattering in the background. He was doing something.
‘Oh … a cottage.’
‘A cottage? Where?’
‘No, no, no,’ she had remembered. ‘Kent! I’m in Kent, baby. Like the cigarettes.’
‘What are you doing in Kent?’
‘Well …’ It didn’t matter any more. ‘I’m talking to a journalist about some things.’
Silence.
Then, ‘OK.’
‘Are you angry with me, baby?’
‘No. I’m not angry with you.’
‘You were on TV!’ She had just remembered!
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you were fabulous.’
‘Thank you. Look …’
It sounded like he wanted to say something.
‘Mm-hm?’
‘Look. I think, well … I think it’s over, really. It’s right that you should go ahead and look after yourself now. I may be in trouble, and it’s not your fault.’
‘Did you kill that boy?’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘But he died.’
‘Yes he did.’
There was another ringing. A long ring. Rrrrrrrring!
‘Look, Mell. I just wanted to say, you know, whatever happens, I love you. I always will. I’m sorry things didn’t work. It was my fault.’
The door. It was the doorbell.
‘Aah. It’s not your fault, baby.’
‘No, it is, Mell. And I’m sorry. I love you and I’m sorry.’
Rrrrrrrrring!
That Garth guy. Maybe Garth was back? Mellody unwrapped the cable from her arm and gathered all the bits under her blanket.
‘I love you too,’ she said, distracted.
Keys in the lock.
‘Do you know what you want to do?’ Hugo said.
‘Mm?’
‘After this. Are you coming home?’
‘Yeah, I think I’ll go home.’
And here was Garth all grouchy-looking, about to say something until he saw she was on the phone.
‘You might want to wait a while. The press are all still here.’ Hugo’s voice was filled with love again.
‘No, no. Home.’
‘America?’
‘Mmm. I think so.’
She sighed happily.
‘Yeah, OK,’ Hugo said. ‘Maybe that’s a good idea.’
Garth sat back in his chair. He looked really mad.
‘Listen baby, I have to go,’ Mellody said.
He was so sweet.
‘I will. I love you too.’
Now you press the other button.
She pressed the other button.
‘I don’t want to rush you, Mell,’ Garth said, red. ‘But we really have to get on with this. Are you OK to continue?’
‘Yes I’m OK.’
She lit a cigarette. It had no filter in it.
‘Continue,’ Mellody said.
Hugo upended the Glenfarclas into his glass, but just a shallow slosh came out. Someone, thoughtfully, had locked the cabinet, removing the key, so he could not help himself to more.
He climbed back up the staircase to the kitchen and found a fresh bottle of everyday Macallan in the far-left corner of the sideboard, where fresh bottles could always be found. His fingernails searched for the weakness in its metal capsule, then stripped it off in one long peel. Outside, the police officer had left his post. Large slow clouds crept undetected through their blue.
Mellody had sounded OK. Tired, which was understand-able, but also relieved. Hugo was relieved, too. He knew what he was going to do.
Back in the basement, the BBC man was picking through a stack of foreign newspapers.
‘Ciao, Karol,’ said the front page of Il Tempo.
Upstairs footsteps strode along the hall. The back door shutting. Finally, Mike had gone.
And there was the key! He must have simply left it on the table.
Picking it up, he sprung the Bruichladdich, and filled another glass with that instead.
He picked up the phone. There was one more call to make.
The digits sang their sequence.
Connected. Ringing. And continued ringing, until a noisy, tape-recorded silence and a wakened rumble introduced the ancient answering machine. It was a Saturday, of course, so they were out. Going round a garden centre probably.
‘Hello,’ said a recording of his father’s voice, more than ten years old now, and still starchy with performance. ‘You’ve reached the home of Martin and Caroline Marks. We’re not in at the moment, but if you’d like to leave your name and number after the beep, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Thank you. Goodbye.’
Hugo loved the smiling way his dad said ‘beep’, trying on the word like it was a funny hat. He could see the old man’s eyebrows popping up.
Then his cue came.
‘Mum, Dad. Hi, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry I haven’t called for a while … And er … I don’t know if you’ve seen the news, but I’m having some problems this morning. I just called to say don’t worry, really. It’s OK. I know what I’m going to do. Things may be quite hard for you for a while, and I’m sorry about that. But whatever happens, I just want you to know that I love you both very much.’
The whisky was trembling in his hand. His voice splintered.
‘So anyway …’
He took a gulp. A tear had crawled between his fingers and the plastic handset.
‘I just wanted you to know that. And I’m very sorry about the grief you’ll get. That’s it. Love you. Bye.’
He switched the phone off in a hurry. He did not want to wait any more.
He took a sip of whisky, and looked at his supplies.
There were nineteen pills in the Ambien bottle. Hugo tipped them out on to the table. He had never taken more than three before. And there were still six Valium left too. He burst them from their pack on to the pile.
A Valium first, with whisky.
Then an Ambien, with more.
Then one of each. Quicker.
More whisky, not too much. Must not sick it up.
Two by two.
The bitter dust seeping through his tongue.
Two by two.
That one scraping on his palate.
Two by two.
Two by two.
Whisky. He had no water.
Two by two.
The final one.
As the Pope gazed down from television.
Hugo took his insulin pen, twisting out the ratchet to its largest dose. He had done this many times before and looked at it. Just looked at it.
The needle disappeared into his belly and he eased the button flat. It travelled such a long, long way.
Again he prepared the largest dose. The pleasant, antiseptic whiff of hospitals.
The plunger sighed in deep.
And he could feel it now. A soft, seductive sickness creeping.
One more needleful, pressed until the tank was empty.
He reached for the remote. How heavy his arm already was.
… cardio-respiratory and metabolic conditions of the Holy Father are substantially unchanged and therefore are very serious.
The words drifted on the screen, and a voice was reading them.
Outside, the helicopter had returned. Hovering still.
Last evening the Pope probably had in mind the young people whom he has met throughout the world during his pontificate.
Hugo closed his eyes.
In fact, he seemed to be referring to them when, in his words, and repeated several times, he seemed to have said the following sentence: ‘I have looked for you. Now you have come to me. And I thank you.’
The helicopter muttered overhead.
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: onolan.daniel@gmail.com
Subject: Re:
Date: Monday, 1 March 2010 13:10:03
That’s great news, Daniel! Really pleased to hear it.
Is everything OK? You don’t sound quite yourself. Feel free to call me on 07700 900412 if you would like to talk. Any time, including the weekend, is fine.
Wonderful new chapter, by the way.
Val x
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: onolan.daniel@gmail.com
Subject: BookBrunch announcement!
Date: Wednesday, 10 March 2010 09:02:17
Hi Daniel
Just to prove we’re on the level, I thought I’d let you know that BookBrunch ran Cape’s announcement of the deal last night. Go to www.bookbrunch.co.uk today and it should still be up there.
I note that they call the book ‘modern fiction at its very best: a smart and savvy satire, ingeniously plotted, and full of mind-blowing twists and turns’. Not bad, eh? Cape are getting quite excited by the ebook possibilities as well. And Leo’s keen to get involved. He has some big ideas of his own he wants to run past you.
Do feel free to call me when you have a minute. It would be so good to hear your voice after all this time. My mobile’s 07700 900412. I promise this is not the police making me ask. (Or if you’re still uncomfortable, and you want to talk to someone in complete confidence, there is always the Samaritans on 08457 90 90 90. They are really great.)
Hope you’re OK!
Val x
* * *
From: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
To: onolan.daniel@gmail.com
Subject:
Date: Monday, 15 March 2010 09:02:17
Dear Daniel,
I know it’s not easy for you to get to a computer at the moment, but if you’re receiving any of my messages, do please let me know you’re OK.
Love,
Val x
07700 900412
* * *
From: onolan.daniel@gmail.com
To: valerie.morrell@nortonmorrell.co.uk
Subject: Re:
Date: Tuesday, 16 March 2010 23:43:30
Epilogue
Dearest Valerie
Honestly, you can’t imagine how many times I didn’t send you that first chapter before I did. Writing it, rewriting it, saving it, reading it, rewriting it, deleting it… feverishly scrubbing at each line of prose to fidget out its music. In the end, the only way to free myself was to get drunk and email what I had, regretting it immediately, as I knew I would. What is interesting, however, is tha
t I don’t regret it now.
The thing is, Valerie, that what I’ve done is what I thought I needed to do. We’re all going somewhere, even if it’s nowhere. To me, this is actually a kind of happy ending, though I realise it may not seem that way to you. In which case, never mind. Remember only that it was the ending that I wanted. I think I always knew what I was going to do.
With love, as always,
Daniel x
Saturday April 2, 2005
14:02
MICHAEL DANCED DOWN the stairs in his new suit. He was a busy man.
Twenty thousand pounds. For twelve hundred words, twenty thousand pounds. For twelve hundred words. And best of all, he haggled for it. They wanted to give him ten thousand. Is that OK? Andrea had said. And probably because she said it, Michael had found himself replying, How about twenty? Almost as a joke. How about twenty? Who would have thought he could haggle? He never haggled.
And now – at last – he was going to write a proper article, with his name on, for a proper paper!
It was quite by accident that I met Hugo Marks, it might begin.
Or, I knew nobody when I arrived at Hugo Marks’s thirty-first.
Yes. That was better. He could not wait to go home and get to work.
His feet drummed down from step to step like expert fingers on piano keys. The old suit beneath his arm flapped merrily in time, clacking the spoon in its pocket on his trousered phone. He was a busy man in a hurry. It was time to go. And he looked forward to it. He would leave these broken people as their better, buttressed by his deal.
But where were they? The living room was empty, televisions off. Michael stopped and listened for a trace of chatter. Nothing. All those laptops gone, too, and the papers cleaned away.
A flush came from the bathroom.
He hurried to the landing and came face to face with a policeman.
‘Just using the toilet, sir,’ the man explained unnecessarily on his way out, and lumped off down the stairs. The cistern hissed.
Where were they all? Michael did not want to leave without his great goodbye.
Gingerly, he approached the other rooms and knocked. Each was empty.
Down in the hall, even the security guy had left his post, though the cameramen outside had not. In the front room, a twisted piece of drapery sat up stiffly on the carpet. The air was curtained and crepuscular, smelling old. Michael made his way into the kitchen, creeping softly, though there was nobody to hear him. Just a huge basket of fruit. In the garden, the policeman had retaken his position. A helicopter hovered overhead.