by Ben Elton
‘Oh well, whatever. To be honest, even if you said you was fullblown Aids I’d still only wipe me steel down, because there is no way this scag is staying on the outside of me one minute longer.’ And with that Robert finally completed the task of injecting a massive but to him only adequate shot of corrupted, badly cut heroin into his bedevilled penis.
SOHO SQUARE
It’s all gone very pear-shaped, Tom. The bloke on the Astoria door says the cops are going ballistic. Nothing can get across St Giles Circus, not even those anarchic thugs on bicycles, and the traffic’s backed up west along Oxford Street all the way to Marble Arch. East it’s jammed as far as the City and south it’s going all the way down Charing Cross Road nearly to the river.
Tommy showed Tony the palm of his hand. ‘Tell it to the ‘and ‘cos the face ain’t listening.’
The speed he had taken was having its desired effect. Tommy was exhilarated. He felt powerful, confident, energetic.
Tony, on the other hand, who was entirely straight, felt anxious and nervous and no longer in charge.
‘Pop some of this, Tone,’ Tommy said soothingly. ‘You’ll feel loads better.’
‘We underestimated your pulling power, Tommy. This is a mess.’
‘I never underestimated anything. I reckoned this’d happen and it ‘as. Brilliant, eh?’
The police are saying we’ve caused a public disturbance. They say the gig’s cancelled.’
Took that. Who do they think they are?’
They don’t think they’re anything. They know who they are. They’re the Metropolitan Police.’
Took that.’
Tommy pressed the electronic window button. The cheering and screaming spread almost instantly throughout the crowd. It was as if everybody knew at once that Tommy was amongst them. Out of view to most of them, certainly, but amongst them nonetheless.
Tommy squeezed himself out of the limo window and, with the help of many eager female hands, scrambled up onto the roof of the car, where he stood, arms stretched out like a Messiah. The amphetamine and adrenalin high were of such a scale now that he was oblivious to fear. The crowd surged around him. People cheered from every window of the square. Tommy felt as if he were flying above them all.
‘I’m here! I am fookin’ here! Yes! I have come to my people! I am here! I am fookin’ here!’
The crowd kept pressing forward as those who were far away and around the corner tried to force their way into Soho Square to catch a glimpse of Tommy.
‘Come to me, my people. Come! For I am fookin’ here.’
Inside the car Tony could almost feel the metal of the limousine’s superstructure straining and starting to buckle as all the young bodies were flattened harder and harder against it. Once more he reached for his mobile. ‘Hello. Yes, police, please…My name is Tony Day. I’m with Tommy Hanson, I’m his tour manager…We’re in Soho Square and Tommy’s been spotted. You have to get the crowd to pull back, people are getting crushed here, little girls are getting crushed. I can see that some of them are starting to lose it…’
There was pain on the girls’ faces now; their mouths were gaping open, but no longer to scream; now they were gasping for air.
‘You have to clear this crowd…Yes, I know who started it, officer, I’m aware of that…But I’m telling you that you have to stop people pushing from the back — ’
Suddenly there was a thunderous roar from the crowd.
‘Oh, shit. He’s gone crowd-surfing.’
FALLOWFIELD COMMUNITY HALL, MANCHESTER
Speed, see. Prat powder. I’m not always a tosser, honest. Mind you, what a fookin’ high that was. I mean, I know we’re all here tryin’ to get clean, but come on! Everybody remembers the really good ones fondly, don’t they? And that was truly amazing. I were invulnerable, a god. I got crowd-surfed out of Soho Square all the way up Sutton Row and round the front of the Astoria. Do you know, I nearly actually made it to the gig. If they’d ‘a just chucked me over the crowd barrier at that point I could have been in, ‘having a drink wi’ Liam and Noel. How cool would that have been? Crowd-surfing to your gig! Unfortunately the crowd were having too much of a laugh and to be honest so was I, so they surfed me straight past the theatre up into St Giles Circus and left along Oxford Street. Brilliant. So there I am, passing Waterstone’s, borne by many hands, and I’m thinking, hang on a minute, if I can just hang a left into Soho Street and down into the square I can get back to my limo and stick a bit o’ coke on top o’ this speed. Top idea. Mental.
‘Amazing, in’t it, what drugs can do to your sense o’ reality? I’m shouting, ‘Left! Left! You bastards! I’ve got some superb charlie in me motor!’ when about twenty arms all in nice white cotton shirt sleeves reach up and grab me. I am well and truly fookin’ nicked.’
BBC NEWS DESK
Peter Paget, MP for Dalston North West and prominent campaigner for the full legalization of drugs, is in fear for his life tonight, having been accidentally stabbed with a hypodermic needle while visiting homeless drug users in London’s West End. The incident occurred amidst a crowd that had been gathering in anticipation of an expected appearance by pop star Tommy Hanson. Numerous teenaged girls were caught up in the crush. It has been reported that when the addict to whom Mr Paget had been talking began to brandish his needle, Mr Paget placed himself between it and the terrified young girls. Sally Ward is the BBC’s medical correspondent.’ Moira, the newscaster, turned to Sally in the newsroom.
‘While there seems to be no question of a deliberate attack on Mr Paget or the girls, addicts in withdrawal are not entirely in control of their bodies or their emotions, and in such a tight group of people there is no doubt that an accident such as this one was very nearly inevitable. With all the attendant risks of infection, it is enormously to Mr Paget’s credit that he ensured that none of the young women was harmed.’ Sally turned back to Moira. ‘Narinder Kumar is at the scene of the accident.’
The perky young reporter stood in the doorway that had so recently seen such drama. ‘Thank you, Moira. I’m here with Fred Golightly of the drug charity Straight…Mr Golightly, you feel strongly that this terrible accident serves only to reinforce the point that Mr Paget has been trying to make with his high-profile campaign.’
‘Absolutely. Peter Paget is a very brave man and he may now pay the price for the blind stupidity of Britain’s ostrich approach to our drug problems. If the man whose needle stabbed Paget had had access to a safe, clean place in which to inject himself this accident would never have happened. Thousands of people are injecting themselves with heroin on the streets of Britain every day. They would prefer to be somewhere safe with access to clean needles, but the law excludes them. With no stake in society, these people become fiercely antisocial, discarding their needles irresponsibly. It is inevitable that the wider community will come increasingly into contact with this bloodied and dangerous litter — in playgrounds, in public toilets, in council lifts and smart shop doorways. The fact that Mr Paget has become such a public victim of that which he seeks to change is a sad irony indeed.’
By the time the following morning’s papers hit the streets Peter was being lauded as a genuine national hero. The protector of innocence, the stern combatant against wild maniacal junkies, the fearless voice of reason in a world of blind political fools. Sometimes the spin goes one way, sometimes another. On this occasion, it was spinning so fast Peter’s way that it seemed that morning as if this one tragic incident had awoken the entire nation from a deep sleep.
Peter, of course, had given up any thought of sleep, convinced as he was that he was going to die of Aids.
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE HOSPITAL, W1
Angela Paget had been a little surprised when Samantha had accompanied them into Dr Wellbourne’s consulting room. Even in this tense and desperate time she could not help but be aware that the nature of the conversation about to take place was surely one for her and Peter alone to share with the doctor. She said nothing, but her look told its
own story.
Samantha recoiled as if stung. ‘Do you want me to…to wait outside, Angela?’
‘Well, Samantha, I don’t really know, it’s all so terribly strange. But I suppose that, yes, I do.’
Instead of leaving immediately, Samantha turned to Peter. ‘Peter, am I to wait outside?’
And in that moment Angela knew that her husband had been making love to his parliamentary assistant.
‘What? Oh, well. Yes. Whatever.’
Peter was far too abstracted by his possible fate to be sensitive to the feelings of either of the two women before whom he had laid his heart. Samantha turned on her heel and left the room. Peter and Angela Paget turned to face the doctor.
‘So far it’s good news,’ the doctor said. ‘Very good news. Robert Nunn, the addict whose needle pierced you, has tested negative to HIV and hepatitis, which, considering the man’s lifestyle, is an immense relief.’
Peter leapt at this nugget of hope. ‘But surely if he’s clean I’m clean. I’m OK?’
‘Not for certain, I’m afraid, although your chances have improved considerably. The current wisdom is that Aids can take anything up to three months to show on a blood test, hepatitis C the same.’
‘Three months!’
‘I’m afraid so. Therefore, it’s entirely possible that Nunn became infected recently and that it’s not yet showing on the test. Unfortunately that wouldn’t stop him infecting you.’
‘Three months!’
‘That is to be absolutely certain, of course. In truth we’d expect the antibodies to show up more quickly, therefore for each week that Nunn shows clean your chances improve dramatically. But we can only be sure that you’re out of danger when we test you in three months’ time.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘As I say, so far it’s so good. I’d say also that the needle prick was on the low side in terms of risk.’
‘How’s that?’ Angela asked. ‘He was stabbed with an addict’s needle.’
‘Well, it’s not great, certainly, but if you imagine a graph, with the highest risk, for instance, that of a nurse in a hospital sitting on a needle full of infected blood and its entirety being pumped into her buttock…’
Angela winced at this. Peter hardly seemed to hear.
‘It happens, believe me,’ the doctor continued. ‘Then if you take the lowest needle prick risk as, say, a discarded needle on a beach, washed by the sea, bleached by the sun for weeks, then I would say that Peter’s accident is closer to that. Nunn had not injected himself when the accident occurred, therefore it had been a number of hours since the needle was in contact with his blood. He had depressed the plunger to expel the air from the hypodermic, and thus any residue from a previous hit that remained in the barrel of the needle would have been partially expelled — ’
Peter interrupted her. ‘Basically, you won’t know for three months.’
‘Not for sure. No.’
Peter got up and left the surgery without a word, leaving Angela Paget to make their farewells as she left.
Outside in the waiting room Samantha simply could not restrain herself. Ignoring Angela completely, she looked straight at Peter. ‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘He might be,’ Angela replied on Peter’s behalf. ‘His chances are much better than we’d feared. Thank you for your concern, Samantha.’
‘Well…We’re all concerned, Angela.’
BBC NEWS DESK
In a separate but connected incident the pop star Tommy Hanson was arrested today and a large part of the West End was brought to a complete standstill when the star attempted to stage a secret performance at the Astoria Theatre. News of the show had been deliberately leaked earlier in the day and huge crowds had gathered at the eastern end of Oxford Street, causing rush-hour chaos. Fearing for public safety, police cancelled the show, but claim Hanson deliberately provoked an already dangerous situation by stepping into the crowd and allowing himself to be manhandled amongst them. A number of teenage girls suffered shock and minor injuries in the crush, but fortunately no serious injuries occurred.’
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS BAR
Bloody nice for the public to see that MPs aren’t all the shits they presume us to be. Peter Paget’s done the whole house an enormous service.’
‘God knows what he’s going through now, though, poor bugger. I mean, I saw the needle go in, must have been two inches. I’m still in shock, so how would he be feeling?’
‘He handled it incredibly, though. Just said, ‘Take it out.’ Didn’t scream or anything, he was very calm about it.’
‘Don’t know if I would have been.’
‘Well, there were all those screaming girls, weren’t there?
I suppose he didn’t want to scare them. I mean, if they’d gone hysterical who knows who else might have been stabbed?’
‘He really did save those girls’ lives.’
‘Yes, and don’t forget that needle was still full of scag. Enough to kill an elephant.’
Suddenly the drug debate had become sexy. Everyone was using words like ‘scag’ as if they’d been hanging about on the front line for years.
‘Christ, if that junkie’s thumb had pushed down…It just doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Shaking their heads in wonder and disbelief, the MPs made their way into the debating chamber. The Prime Minister was scheduled to make a statement on the state of Peter Paget’s health. Following this, the Leader of the Opposition intended to express his own party’s sincerest sympathy and best wishes to Paget and his family. The Liberal Democrat Leader had it in mind to suggest that Paget be recommended for a medal.
THE GROUCHO CLUB, SOHO
Milton emerged from the gentlemen’s toilet just as Paula was exiting the ladies’. He was delighted to see her; the tiny crystals of cocaine that were exploding against his nasal membrane had put him in just the mood for a bit more crowing over his defeated colleague. Paula, on the other hand, was loath to waste her own cocaine buzz talking to such a loathsome toad as Milton.
‘Paula! Enjoying the Paget story? Not much, I imagine. The man you’ve been vilifying suddenly turns up as the national hero. Must be something of a drag, eh? Going to be a bit galling when you have to change tack, isn’t it? But the editor’s insistent we back Paget! The only man with the guts not only to have an opinion but also to act on it. I’ve recommended that you do a big spread on the family. You know, talk to the wife and daughters. Editor loves the idea but he wants it really lush and glowing. You’ve got to make the whole world love them, just as you must love them yourself, Paula, particularly your old sparring partner, the daughter.’
Paula did not bother to reply. Instead she trotted up the stairs as quickly as she could, leaving Milton smirking behind her. And well he might smirk. It had been a terrible shock for Paula to wake up to the news that the man she wished to ruin had risen so highly in the public’s esteem. To learn also that he might very well have contracted a life-threatening disease in the line of duty. There was no doubt that she would have to put the conviction she had formed while lurking in that hotel corridor aside for a time. Now was certainly not the moment to announce to the world that Peter Paget, famous family man and moral crusader, was screwing his parliamentary assistant. But the time would come. The pendulum always swung. Paula could wait.
EAST LONDON CEMETERY
Detective Sergeant Sara Hopper rarely cried. Her job was such that if she allowed herself the luxury of tears on anything but the rarest occasions she would find herself crying for most of her working life.
Now, however, she wept openly. Most of the congregation did. Sara had been so sure that Jo Jo would survive. She had seemed to be growing in strength, building a wall between herself and the tragedy. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign for Sara and the other counsellors who had attempted to alleviate Jo Jo’s pain. How could one possibly build a wall high enough to keep out the knowledge of such a terrible abuse?
Certainly Jo Jo could not, for
one day, just when it was least expected, Jo Jo took a Stanley knife from her father’s toolbox, ran herself a hot bath, sat in it and opened the veins on her wrists. She left a note, expressing an emotion common to those who have been brutalized, a desperate feeling of guilt.
‘Dear Mummy and Daddy. I’m so sorry.’
Jo Jo had not intended to increase her parents’ agony with her final note, of course, but that was what she did.
With appropriate sombre melancholy, rain began to fall as the sods of wet earth fell heavily on Jo Jo’s white and gold coffin. And with each dull thud the resolve that was forming like a cancer inside Commander Leman grew heavier and more solid too.
Jo Jo was dead. And it was all his fault.
AN OXFAM SHOP, WEST BROMWICH
There’s only one way tae give up scag an’ that’s cold turkey. Ah mean, let’s face it. All a methadone programme gets you is an addiction to methadone, am I right? The only way off the junk is tae stop takin’ it. Full stop. Well, as Ah’m sure ye know, it isnae easy. Kickin’ heroin is no picnic, even if you’re curled up under a duvet at your ma’s wi’ nice warm soup left at your bedroom door in case ye fancy it and a clean toilet tae puke in…
‘But, oh ma Goad, you try doin’ turkey in secret, on the inside of a brothel. Try doin’ it sharing an attic wi’ eight junkies, an’ wi’ a gang o’ big bastards pushin’ the stuff onta ye all the time an’ acting right suspicious when ye says no tae a nice big smoke o’ scag. Try doin’ it when you’re workin’ ten tricks a night and you’re supposed to shag ‘em with some element of enthusiasm or at least not curled up in a shivering ball o’ sweat and effluvia. Well, that’s how Ah did it. Ah swear tae ye now as Ah live and breathe. An’ Ah’m amazed that Ah’m still living an’ breathin’ taste swear anythin’ at all. Ah did cold turkey the hard way, aged seventeen, Ah think, while maintaining ma occupation as the working property o’ a whoremaster, an’ were Ah tae try taste bicycle up Mount Everest wi’ ma legs tied together, Ah will never in ma whole life do nothin’ tae match it.’