by Daniel Stone
As I cried and warbled on about my problems, unloading my anger at work being shit, colleagues being arseholes, I’d even mentioned I might be becoming a father and he in turn would be a great-grandad, not that he wasn’t already. He was just about the best man I’d ever known. I just thought in some way me having a child was relevant as he lay there with his life slipping away.
Suddenly he seemed not to be exhaling. I moved closer, holding his hand, telling him how much I loved him and that Nan was waiting for him and to not be scared and to go and find her for a dance. Then his breath stopped, he squeezed his eyes shut, his final bit of life drained away. The lights in the room flickered, the colour drained from his face and he was cold and gone. I couldn’t stop looking at him; he seemed to keep changing colour, getting yellower and greyer. I didn’t want to leave him. I couldn’t stop looking at his hands. Grandad’s hands had been there all my life guiding me; now they were lifeless and I felt lost and bitterly angry. Who would listen to me now? Whose opinions mattered to me like his?
After I couldn’t cry any more I went outside and lit a cigarette. I couldn’t think any more, my brain was totally numb. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my phone. It was on silent. I had missed several calls and had a few text messages. Without thinking I checked my voicemail mailbox. First message was from James saying, ‘Wah hey, happy birthday, fucker, hope you have a good one, we’ll go out soon and get messy, eh.’ Second message was a client saying, ‘Hello, just chasing my job. Can you call me as soon as possible and let me know where it is.’ Third message, same client: ‘Hello, we’re still waiting for our job. We specifically asked for it to be delivered before half nine, it’s now half ten and we haven’t seen it. Because you haven’t phoned we’re none the wiser. I don’t think this is a very good service at all so don’t think we should be charged for this job. Phone me as soon as you get this message.’ Fourth message: ‘’Ello Pilot Light, just had the bloke from Gibbons Brady & Hartley on the phone chasing his job, stroppy fucker. Can you let him know it was delivered this morning at half nine and signed for by a Peter. Why are you late anyway? Get out of bed, you lazy bastard.’… ‘You have no new messages.’
I couldn’t bring myself to read my texts.
35 – Victoria line
Carol and I were on the Victoria line heading back to Finsbury Park. We had enjoyed a few pre-Christmas drinks in Covent Garden before heading up to Oxford Street on a mini, impromptu pub crawl. I was a little tipsy; we were both merry but definitely not pissed. We then headed home not particularly late, well oiled but in good spirits. We were happy. We weren’t rich; we were young and had some aspirations. Her more than me, or her family had more for her than me; it didn’t really matter – we were healthy and getting by. We were getting on well. Past troubles were literally that: past troubles.
We giggled as the tube train bounced us around on our seats. I hadn’t really taken much notice of the other passengers; I was in my own little bubble with Carol. The guy sitting in front of me was Oriental looking but seemed a happy enough chap; so much so that when I took out a packet of square, salty flavoured crisps from my bag, after offering some to Carol, I also offered them to him. Carol laughed; he nodded, smiled and said, ‘No, thank you.’ An older lady, weathered by London living, looking perhaps ten or twenty years older than she really was, adorned in a heavy, woven, thick-checked, greeny-brown coat that could have come straight out of Nora Batty’s wardrobe, clutched her purple, fake leather handbag with bright gold-plated buckles closer to herself; she seemed to think for a second about giving me a dirty, disapproving look before relenting and breaking into a little grey-toothed smile. It was as if she said ‘No, thank you’, just in case I offered her a crisp as well. I imagined they would play havoc with her teeth.
We were having fun nonetheless, and so many journeys on the underground are so utterly insular and devoid of any feeling or actions or human interactions. We were having fun and didn’t really care about anyone else.
I realised I hadn’t offered any crisps to the guy sitting beside me on my left. He was listening to his walkman. The first time I offered him a crisp he didn’t seem to notice me or was deliberately ignoring me. I offered him a crisp again and this time he turned to look straight at me. I waved the crisps at him and mouthed, ‘Do you want one?’
He didn’t say a word, he just looked at me for a moment. He stared straight through me. He reminded me of the actor Tim Roth. I asked again, ‘Do you want a crisp?’ He blinked, took out his earphones and leant down between his legs to retrieve a rucksack sitting on the floor. I thought he might have a packet of crisps himself as he put his headphones into his bag, which he placed back on the floor. He then turned to face me, but in his hand he held a Stanley knife no more than five or six inches from my face. My eyes flicked between the blade and his eyes and mouth. He started talking monosyllabically. I was aware of all the other passengers including Carol recoiling, trying to put distance, any distance, between me and him and them. My heart pounded; time slowed down. Every miniscule movement of the blade was tracked by my eyes. I was supremely calm but utterly attentive.
‘Are you taking the piss out of me?’ he asked coldly.
‘No,’ I said, staring at the blade.
‘Because if you were I would fucking cut you up,’ he said.
‘I only offered you a square crisp,’ I said, trying to open negotiations. I was trying to persuade myself that if he was going to cut me up he would have done it by now, and whilst I concentrated on his hand, which took on the look of a rattle snake all coiled up and ready to strike, I started thinking about grabbing his hand and fighting him back. Would any other passengers get involved? The way they had edged away suggested to me I was on my own.
He was still talking to me; he was quite calm but definitely unhinged. He wasn’t going to let the situation fizzle out. He was still questioning why I had offered him a crisp, thinking I had an ulterior motive or was in some way taking the piss out of him. I noticed he was gradually moving off his seat, trying to stand up, or at least he wanted to be standing up. So, keeping my distance and concentration on the blade, I gradually stood up as well. We were roughly the same size. My peripheral vision was totally aware and focused on his whole body, but the blade was the focal point.
Everything I said he seemed to ignore or repeat. He seemed lost as to what he was supposed to do next.
‘Look, mate...’ I said.
‘I don’t ’av to look at anything,’ he murmured back.
‘I’m sorry!’
‘You aren’t sorry!’
‘All I did was offer you a crisp!’
‘Why would I want a crisp from you?’
‘You wouldn’t necessarily want a crisp from me!’
‘I didn’t want anything from you!’
‘I know now and I’m sorry you didn’t want one.’
‘You aren’t sorry; you were taking the piss.’
‘How was me offering you a crisp fucking taking the piss?’
‘Don’t you fucking swear at me!’
‘I think you’re overreacting, mate.’
‘I ain’t your mate and I think you’re taking the piss.’
‘Put the knife away, mate.’
‘Fuck you, I told you I ain’t your mate. Fucking make me put the knife away.’
‘Look, mate, I said I’m sorry. Let’s just forget it, yeah?’
‘I won’t forget it and nor should you.’
‘Come on, mate, this is stupid.’
‘Don’t call me stupid.’
‘I wasn’t calling you stupid.’
The situation wasn’t improving, and with us both now standing and swaying with the train the conversation was leading to a climax: we were either going to end up in a fight or the train was going to arrive at the next station and things would come to a head. I had no idea what the outcome would be. I had tried to keep my distance, and getting close enough to head-butt him would have put me within slicing reach. I could
hear Carol moving behind me. I wasn’t sure if she was getting out of the way or going to intervene using some feminine charm.
I continued watching the blade, not so worried about the damage one swipe would cause. I was vain but not so vain that I was petrified of getting cut up. But I was on a train with normal people who were unquestionably scared. I had caused this. The guy hadn’t wanted a square crisp and certainly didn’t want to back down. Could I knock him out with one punch? It didn’t feel likely. I could grab his knife hand and hope and pray for some intervention. Why hadn’t I acted straight away? How had I let the situation build to this? What was the right thing to do? Negotiations had got me nowhere.
Then the leather wall appeared. Out of nowhere it seemed to me. Certainly from somewhere behind me a man mountain wearing a long black leather jacket appeared between me and the guy with the blade and gently but forcefully bore down on my aggressor using nothing but his huge size as intimidation. The guy with the knife backed away until he was forced to sit down. I couldn’t hear anything being said. I just backed away into the aisle and towards the door, ready to jump off the train at the next stop. Would the big guy be okay? Should I stay and make sure he was okay as well? Carol grabbed me by the hand. I looked at her and she was ashen and wide eyed. Looking back around the train carriage I saw the older Chinese looking man and the old lady still clinging to her handbag didn’t look much better. I’d ruined their journey; her eyes simmered with resentment.
I didn’t know who the leather wall was; I guess he could have been my guardian angel. Or hell’s angel? I never figured my angel would be a man much taller than six foot and sporting an early eighties-style mullet and wearing a long leather coat.
36 – Cold Pillows
My bed was cold, and it didn’t feel clean like it used to; I probably should have changed the sheets by now. That wasn’t my forte. I was drunk and tearful. I wasn’t sure what time it was. I wanted to go back to sleep. I wanted to carry on the dream. The street lights were shining through the blinds so it was either early or late. Perhaps I should have another whiskey to put me back to sleep, I thought. I tried to think happy thoughts to start a nice dream off. My body ached and itched and I couldn’t get comfortable. One pillow wasn’t enough and two felt like I was sitting up straight. Chloe would have snapped at me by now.
I know what I should have said:
‘My wife, my soul mate, you are the only real love of my life. I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. I’ll never forget my interview with The Printing Company. As I passed the office you were simply getting on with your work in your tight red trousers, flirting with the guys just by being you, perfect, all bubbly and beautiful. I was determined to get the job so I could work with you, just to be with you, to get to know you.
‘These gifts I will get are for you, for us. I promised we would live happily ever after and we would get there in the end. I know things haven’t been easy and I have been a twat, but thank you for sticking with me. I know I said it didn’t matter if we didn’t have any children and I honestly meant it. I always wanted you over anything and everything. All I ever wanted was you. You always said we don’t know what’s around the corner and let’s see how things turn out; well, I’m going to make things turn out alright.
‘We will be rich; we will be able to live comfortably. You don’t have to worry. I love you, sweetheart. We will have the lovely house and the life you always wanted. We will be secure.’
37 – Hogmanay
I’d appointed myself to the role of social secretary. I’d found the club night, sorted the tickets, filled the flat with booze. The likely crew were all assembling and on their way from all over the country. Everyone was due at mine first and then off to the club we’d go. New Year’s Eve was sorted; I’d planned it all perfectly and all that was left to do was go and enjoy.
The flat was full with people, everyone nattering, even my budgie. Pre-club excitement washed down with vodka and Red Bull. My mates and mates of mates were all looking forward to the night ahead. Some people, however, had opted to go straight to the club; initial worries about traffic jams caused last minute changes of plan.
Still the crowd and general mood deemed the best course of action would be to get as drunk as possible on my cheap supplies at home before heading to the club that was more than likely going to be charging over the odds as usual on NYE.
I began to feel my feet itching as time went by and felt the crowd needed encouragement to drink up and party on. This was probably a bad decision. I drank my drink and it was quickly replaced with another that was supposedly mine as well. I encouraged everyone to follow suit. No joy.
I didn’t want the guys who were going directly to the club to have to wait around all night whilst these piss artists fannied around getting merry on my supplies. I decided to neck a few more unattended glasses. I believed this was the best way to get everyone out of the flat and on their way as quickly as possible. I necked a couple more; only these didn’t taste the same: no Red Bull, just vodka. Still, my plan was working.
‘Come on, you fuckers, let’s go!’
The added urgency to my voice and the volume of booze I’d drunk had begun to have the desired effect. Those who still guarded their drinks frigidly finished what they had begun and stubbed out fags and joints, then put on jackets and finally began making their way downstairs.
‘Woo hooo, we’re finally off,’ I said, looking at Carol who was still entrenched in a conversation with her mates and not looking like she was interested in leaving.
We descended the three flights of stairs, noisy and expectant. The words from the tune ‘Tonight it’s part time, it’s party time tonight, squeeze my tits’ rang in my ears; the last song we’d heard on the CD player before leaving. I grinned at the motley crew gathered outside as I slammed the front door shut.
‘Do you want to give us our tickets now?’ Farrah, one of Liam’s mates, asked.
I checked my pockets, shit! That was lucky; we’d nearly travelled all the way to the club without realising I’d left the tickets upstairs in the flat.
‘Well remembered,’ I said. ‘I’d better go back upstairs and grab them.’ I saw a few faces looking at me, thinking Idiot. I patted down my pockets in disbelief that I could have forgotten the keys as well. ‘Fuck, I must have left them upstairs as well. Carol, can I use your keys?’ Please say you have yours, I thought.
‘No, I haven’t brought a bag.’
‘Fuck.’
Mates who’d previously been undecided were rapidly coming to the conclusion that I was a bit of a tool; and a prize one at that.
‘What are you going to do now?’ James asked whilst Carol looked at me like I was a piece of shit on her shoe. This was now becoming the general theme of the group’s conversation and everyone was chipping in: ‘Yeah, what are you going to do now?’
‘Fuck a duck a day,’ was all I could say. I had to use my last few functioning brain cells in a hurry and hoped they weren’t as fucked as I felt; I was rapidly going from hero to zero. Big Tam and Farrah and a few other lads were recommending kicking the doors down to get to the flat. My problem with that was the three new communal doors in between the road and my abode! Not an option.
‘The pub,’ I announced. Everyone groaned; they didn’t want to spend NYE in a pub.
‘Not for a beer,’ I hastened to add. I thought it was a great place to ask for a ladder. I lived on the middle floor and if I could get onto the flat roof I’d be able to open the window to the lounge and grab the tickets and keys and we were sorted. All I’d need to do was to get onto the roof. Hey presto, well done brain cells. I ran up to the local Wetherspoon’s about five doors up and explained my dilemma. The old battleaxe took pity on me straight away and to my surprise sent me round the side of the pub where a ladder was waiting for me.
I made my way back to the flat feeling prematurely triumphant. No way would they expect me to return with a ladder. I hoped the group would be with me
; these sort of hurdles pop up and make some groups of people grow together and enjoy the challenge, but at the moment I felt like the person who was ruining everyone’s lives. Fuck it. I set the ladder and climbed the steps. Unfortunately for me, even with my arms and fingers fully extended I was still a good foot short. I went back down the ladder, searching for reassurances and reinforcements – even someone a foot taller would have easily reached. None were forthcoming. ‘What the fuck!’ No one said a word; they just left me with the dilemma.
I went back up the ladder, thinking one big jump up, a firm grip and I should be able to pull myself up, should, should, should... ‘Could someone at least hold the ladder for me?’ It was the least they could do I decided.
One, two, three, fuck it. I jumped up, feeling the ladder shift a little. Cheers for the support. I managed to catch one hand on the flat roof, which was a good thirty feet up in the air. As my momentum and equilibrium righted itself and my clambering free hand fell drastically short, my other hand held for a millisecond and then I felt the gravel under my fingertips begin to slide. Finally I let go as if the inevitable fall was more expected than the successful climb. I fell down horizontally amongst the crowd of my so-called friends and loved ones. My left wrist and head took most of the impact.
I lay still for a second, defeated and broken. I could hear them sniggering at me. Humiliated, I reacted the only way I knew how. With all my remaining power, I shot up and ran off as fast as I could. I made it across the crossroads, running full pelt in between the lights, then something strange happened. The path I was running along seemed to rise up at a peculiar camber, pushing me straight into a shop door. I whacked my head again, and lost consciousness.
As I drifted in and out I saw myself being thrown over someone’s shoulder. I guessed it must have been Big Tam, Liam’s mate. I was upside down in a fireman’s carry. This was a strange way to go clubbing, but as long as we got there needs must, I supposed. In between opening and closing my eyes I put my hand in sick down his back; surely he couldn’t go out like that. There was crashing and banging as doors were kicked in.