The Comedown

by Martin Doohan

  The room was empty except for one lad sitting at the bar, a couple of blokes at the end playing darts and the barmaid. The girl smiled and asked them what they would like to drink. They were both mesmerised by the unfamiliar accent and stared at her, until she asked again and stirred them into action.

  They took their Carlsbergs to a seat by the window and listened to the Happy Mondays. They both loved the Mondays but equally hated the fact they were Mancs.

  1.10 Hello Mum

  Tom Adams sat at the bar, engrossed by the tune, he’d seen them live with the Stone Roses at the Alexandra Palace; first E in fact. It had ripped him apart. He’d necked it and then stood around waiting, drinking and wondering what all the fuss was about. Twenty minutes later he’d been sat on the toilet breathing in, licking his lips like a lizard on speed. Rushes hitting him every thirty seconds until the buzz nearly made him faint. Waves of electricity surging through his body as he wandered back, smiling and hanging on to a bottle of warm lager for the next three hours while he stomped up and down to the best music he had ever heard in his life. He’d ended so sweaty he’d looked like he’d jumped in a swimming pool, wandering round vaguely searching for the car in the car park clutching a bottle of water. He couldn’t even remember what car he had come in. He smiled and laughed to himself. What a fucking top night. Fancying another drink, he stuck his hand in his pocket for some cash and felt a plastic bag. He looked around and pulled it out, 14 Es. Fuck, he didn’t even know he’d had them. What a twat!

  It was at this moment he noticed the two lads come in. He quickly shoved the bag back in his jeans. Must be staying in the hotel he thought as he discreetly looked them up and down, he’d never seen them before. Scousers, he realised when they gave their order. A long way from home. They were probably on the way to Holland, Amsterdam most likely. Drugs and fucking. A great trip and one all lads should experience as many times as possible before they die, go to jail or get married.

  He listened to them, as they sat behind him discussing the Happy Mondays. He was glad he’d put the tune on; he’d pleased someone on what had been a very shitty day so far. He ordered another Pils, left some money on the bar and went to the toilet. On the way back to the bar he rang home to invite Lassie down for a few beers. He could be here in fifteen minutes, and if he did it in ten he’d buy him an Indian. The phone rang and rang. He waited for ten rings or so before putting the receiver down. His bottle of Pils and his change was on the bar. He smiled at the barmaid with No Name and sat down. The lads in the window seat were now raving about the new tune, ‘Fool’s Gold’. Tom had put on the 10:09 minute version and the Scouse lads were lapping it up. He swigged his beer and thought about an Indian, if Lassie wasn’t going to join him perhaps No Name girl would. He took another gulp of his lager, motioned for another and put his hand in his pocket for cash.

  The beer arrived and No Name girl winked at him… ‘Don’t get too drunk.’ She walked back down the bar swinging her petite little arse and all thoughts of using the phone were gone.

  He was now potentially on a promise with No Name girl.

  He sat back and listened to the lad’s conversation, great tune, best bassist ever, Manc cunts. One looked over and caught Tom’s attention. ‘Eh mate,’ Razor asked, ‘Is it you who likes the Roses and Mondays?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Tom replied, using his beer to toast the northern sound he had so often got off his head to.

  ‘Fucking ace, la,’ Razor shouted across the pretty much empty bar, raising a stare from the two men playing darts.

  ‘Do you wanna join us mate?’

  Tom considered the move from No Name chat-up area to a table with two shifty Scousers. He got up from the bar, thanked the lads for their hospitality and joined them at their table. This could be interesting he thought, and waved to No Name girl that he’d see her in a bit.

  The conversation flowed from why they were in Harwich (Tom had guessed correctly that they were on their way to Amsterdam), to music – The Stone Roses versus the Happy Mondays – to football.

  ‘It’s up for grabs now,’ Tom was shouting, feeling the effects of the numerous bottles of Pils he had taken care of during the evening. He was recalling with vigour, the last game of the 1989 season when Michael Thomas scored with the last kick of the game at Anfield to win the title.

  ‘Fuck you!’ the Scousers chimed, ‘fucking lucky bastards… that’s all you were!’

  ‘And who’s won the title this year chaps?’ Tom asked, remembering that Arsenal could have won this year’s title without kicking a ball if Liverpool lost at Notts Forest before Arsenal took on Man United at Highbury in an 8 p.m. kick off. Liverpool lost to Forrest and Arsenal tonked the Manc’s 3-1. Beautiful. After telling the scousers that, in effect, Liverpool had gifted it to Arsenal they were all happy to change the subject.

  ‘Wankers.’

  ‘Shithouses.’

  ‘Another beer?’ Paddy got up and went to the bar for more drinks.

  Tom sat back, enjoying himself. These lads were sound. He even thought about going to Dam with them for a couple of days. It would be hilarious.

  Paddy was on his way back from the bar, where he’d had no luck with the No Name barmaid. He sat down and passed out the beers.

  Razor leant over so that his voice could only be heard by the people at the table, but because of his pissed state everyone else in the bar heard it too. ‘Can you get us any Es Tom?’

  ‘Shut your fucking noise you prick,’ Paddy hissed, kicking his mate in the shins.

  ‘I fucking whispered that, you cunt,’ Razor rubbed his shins and looked at the table. ‘Wanker.’

  Paddy ignored the moan, and looked at Tom. ‘Can you then?’

  Tom looked around the bar, no one had taken any notice of the three of them, No Name girl was cleaning and the darts players had long gone. It was half nine on a Monday. Jesus, could he really be arsed? He then remembered the fourteen little fellas he had in his pocket and thought about a potential little earner.

  ‘How many do you want if I can lads? After all it is a Monday and people tend to shut up shop till Thursday, at least round here.’

  The lads looked at each other and Paddy spoke, ‘Ten or so, just enough to have a little giggle. Is there anywhere to go in Harwich if you’re off your nut?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Who gives a fuck, if you can get them we’ll have them, la, and you’ll be in on the party too eh?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll drink this and have a walk down the road. I know a lad who might have some left over from the weekend.’

  A bottle of Pils was drained and Tom nodded and told the lads he would be twenty minutes or so. He walked out into the summer evening, did a left, looked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed, did another left and walked towards the shops. He reached the estate agents and sat on the wall. He looked at his watch and waited five minutes before walking back to the bar. He walked in to find a new cold bottle of Pils waiting for him. He had a bit of a buzz on now and was feeling a tad reckless. He explained to the lads that a friend down the road had had a few left over, they were OK, not Doves, but OK. Triple Xs. He’d managed to scrounge fourteen, and they were thirteen quid each. He felt bad charging them so much but business was business.

  ‘No problem, la, cheers for getting them us, after all its fucking Happy Monday!’ Razor took the bag, looking like he had been given the keys to a Ferrari. Paddy went off to the toilet, counted some cash out, returned and paid the bill.

  ‘Right, let’s get on it.’ He turned to Razor, who’d already got three out in his hand. They each grabbed an E and swallowed.

  As time and beer passed each of them took turns to chew their lips, rub their legs, go to the toilet only to find they couldn’t piss, tell each other the were REALLY enjoying themselves, shake each other’s hands, rub the backs of their necks and look at their reflections in the window. They eventually found themselves in the hotel room, crushing Es on the mirror and snort
ing them, this was new to Tom and the heat of an E flying up his nostril made him want to sniff water next.

  ‘Fuck me, that smarts a bit.’

  ‘La, wait till it hits it’s fucking amazing,’ Razor sat holding the mirror with more powder on it ready to go the way of the others.

  Tom passingly thought that this lad was a maniac. He looked across at the other bed and stared in disbelief at range of movement going with Paddy’s jaw. His eyes were flickering dangerously in REM in what could be a wild dream. He looked at his watch, it was one in the morning, and in fact it was fucking Tuesday! He had to bail…

  ‘I’m going home mate, cheers for a top night, have a good time in Amsterdam, if you’re around tomorrow or when you’re back give me a ring and we’ll meet up for a few beers?’

  Razor looked at him, gurning massively. ‘Top night, la, fucking brilliant, I’m off my tiny mind. We’ll ring ya.’

  Tom wrote down his phone number before leaving to walk back home. At least it was still warm.

  Razor put his hands behind his head and had a massive stretch, which gave him a huge rush. He looked across at Paddy who looked fucked. He decided he was unlikely to get much sleep that night and decided to go for a wander around the hotel. He left the room and found his way to reception. He sat looking at the parrot. The parrot stared Razor out and he got paranoid and retreated to a comfy sofa next to the phone. He sat pie-eyed wandering what to do with himself. He picked up the phone and dialled a number; it rang for a short while before someone picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello mum, it’s Raymond.’

  1.11 George – Tuesday, 4 June 1991

  The black BMW was parked in front of the garage. There were three people in the car, George, and the Brothers Grim, so-called because that was how they looked. Graham and Kevin Stones had no sense of humour. They were George’s self-styled henchmen. They had left school with him, and being loyal friends, had become fierce soldiers when he offered them jobs on the doors of one of the clubs he did ‘security’ for.

  The back windows of the car were illegally tinted, much to the dismay of George, and even more disappointingly for the garage owner, who had told him it was all perfectly legal. They would definitely be the last tinted windows he would be fitting for quite some time.

  The Brothers Grim held the garage owner’s arms stretched out as George carried out what he called ‘some touch-up work’ on him for the inconvenience of having to redo the windows.

  A glass shattering scream bounced off the corrugated roof of the garage as the oxy torch burnt into the flesh on the man’s arm.

  ‘You won’t do that again will you, you fucking prick?’ said George as he dropped the torch and kicked it away.

  Graham and Kevin looked almost disinterested as they followed the nod and let go of the man’s arms.

  ‘He fucking screamed didn’t he, Kev?’

  ‘Never smelled burning flesh before, fucking stank, real bad.’

  ‘Awful fucking smell. Kuwait must smell like that every-fucking-where.’

  George sat in the front seat, looking at the house he had just parked across the road from. This was his favourite time to catch a rat. Early in the morning, nice and simple. ‘Right, I’ll go in on my own. Watch out for any curtain twitchers.’

  ‘OK.’

  George got out of the car, pulled up his collar and crossed the road to the Wilkins’ house thinking, as he went, through many different scenarios, all equally violent and designed to inflict pain quickly and extract information even quicker. The hairs stood up on his back and his vision narrowed. He was so fucking angry he could burst.

  Mrs and Mrs Wilkins sat on the sofa, they were both slightly hung-over. Liverpudlian born and bred and well-known to all in their street, they had worked as school caretakers for years. After work every day they would visit their local off Licence, You Booze, You Snooze. They bought a bottle of rum a week and eight Stella’s each night. This would see them through the mundane telly and allow them both to get a decent night’s kip. They had parented just one child, Raymond.

  Mr Wilkins had named him after the footballer Ray ‘Butch’ Wilkins. Though he couldn’t remember why, as he thought Wilkins was at best an average footballer who only got into the England side because no one else played in his position.

  Mr Wilkins had just put on the breakfast. Fried eggs and bacon. It was the usual. He still adored his wife and got up first each morning to make her a decent fry up. The toaster pinged and the eggs and bacon were nearly done. It was time to call Mrs Wilkins for her breakfast. They had got into the habit of calling each other Mr and Mrs Wilkins through working in the school. ‘Breakfast’s ready!’

  He poured two cups of tea from the kettle and placed the milk at the side of Mrs Wilkins plate, as she liked to add milk herself.

  ‘Morning, darling, thank you.’

  ‘A pleasure Mrs Wilkins, as always.’

  Mr Wilkins picked up the Daily Mirror. The headlines were about the IRA shootings but he turned to the sport and the European Cup final. Robbery, Liverpool should have been in that but they were still serving their ban from Heysel. Shame he thought, a real shame.

  There was a knock on the door and Mr Wilkins stood up to answer it.

  ‘Who’s that at this time, dear?’

  ‘I don’t know love; we pay the papers at the shop and the milky on a Friday, strange.’

  George Meachen stood on the doorstep and raised his hand in a friendly gesture, he stepped slightly into the hallway and placed a heavy foot in the door to prevent it from being forced closed. He looked around the place. It looked like a shit hole, full of empty Stella cans.

  ‘Morning Mr Wilkins, Razor home?’

  Mr Wilkins began to speak, but was interrupted.

  ‘Which one is Ray’s room then?’

  He pushed past Mr Wilkins and made his way up the stairs looking about; he found it quickly. Mrs Wilkins had now made her way to the front of the house. Her husband was on his knees, she helped him off the floor and asked ‘What’s happening dear? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in a panic, ‘but there’s someone upstairs, I think we’re being burgled.’

  ‘I’m calling the police.’

  George, hearing the threat, came back down stairs. He seemed to fill their hall.

  ‘Now, now, no need to do that. I just need a quick chat with your Ray.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘I can see that.’ He felt his rage starting to build. ‘Where is he? Look people, I’m a fucking friend, Ray’s in trouble and I wanna help the soft lad.’

  George wandered through the house into the kitchen, picked up a sausage, dipped it into some sauce and sat down. The Wilkins had followed him through and he motioned for them to sit down.

  ‘You only have one silly no-mark of a fucking son you stupid sods. Now if you want to see him again I need to know where he.’

  ‘That’s not the way a friend would speak, and anyway, we haven’t seen him since Saturday. Now tell us, who are you?’ Mrs Wilkins replied.

  ‘As I said, a friend. It seems Ray and his mate, Patrick, have been up to no good and a couple of hard noses are looking for them. I wanna help but I need to know where he is so I can.’

  George could feel his hands turning white as he clenched his knuckles, his teeth started to grind. He’d had enough. He decided to change tack immediately and told them both to sit down. ‘Listen, I’m gonna fucking hurt both of you if you don’t tell me where your fucking cunt of a son is.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Wilkins spat out the words in shock as he stood up feeling the need to defend his wife, ‘I don’t know where he is!’

  ‘How about fucking this for I don’t know where he fucking is?’ shouted George as he picked up a fork with half a sausage still on, bit down and ate the sausage before plunging the fork into Mr Wilkins’s leg. Mr Wilkins buckled in agony and his wife started screaming.

  ‘Shut up, both of you, fucking now! Stop fucking whini
ng you old fucking slag. He’s the cunt with the fork in his leg.’

  Mr Wilkins fell on the floor, covering himself in egg and sauce, in agony he tried to remove the fork from his leg but George stood over him and smashed him over the head with the teapot, hot tea scalding him.

  ‘You had your fucking chance, you daft pair of cunts.’

  A knife emerged from a pocket and George dragged Mr Wilkins halfway upright. With the knife against Mr Wilkin’s throat George says: ‘Tell me or I’m gonna cut your cunt of a husband’s fucking throat out and make you drink his blood before raping you with your own fucking arm.’

  Mrs Wilkins dropped to her knees, pleading, ‘Please, I don’t know.’

  ‘Bollocks, you lying cow.’

  ‘Honest, please leave us alone, all, all I know is he took his passport.’

  At this, George releases the man and pushed him into the floor. He walks toward Mrs Wilkins and looks menacingly into her eyes.

  ‘If you’re lying I’ll fucking kill you and your son. Well to be fair, he’s a fucking half-dead Zombie anyway.’

  George looked around at the mess in the kitchen, ‘Get your fucking house cleaned up, you pair of grubby winos. It makes me fucking sick to look at the fucking mess you live in.’

  On his way out of the kitchen he picked a piece of bacon, still sizzling, out of the frying pan sitting on the hob.

  He’s was still eating his bacon as he passed the little phone stand and noticed a writing pad. He stopped and picked it up, reading the scribbled message written on it. A wild smile spread across his face as he ran back into the kitchen. The couple are arm in arm crying, scared and still sitting on the floor.

  George stared at them, ‘You fucking pair of lying cunts.’

  Mr and Mrs Wilkins threw up their arms in self-defence, screaming as George lifted the boiling hot frying pan with two hands, and emptied the burning bacon fat onto them. The hissing of the fat and the screams of the couple excited him and he laughed, the laugh turning into a hideous snarl as he grabbed Mrs Wilkins’ arm. Her curdling scream as George pressed the boiling hot base of the frying pan onto her forearm made Mr Wilkins sob uncontrollably.