by Sean Hancock
I nod, letting him know I won’t be any trouble, and turn to my screen, resolving to stop asking questions and start finding answers. I type ayahuasca into Google now, looking for current information regarding the powerful and sacred medicine of the Amazon. If I can get my hands on some, I’ll be able to access the spirit realm, which is where Ashkai told me to go.
I open the Wikipedia entry for ayahuasca, and it outlines what I already know: that the brew is made by the genius combination of two specific Amazonian plants, which are then pounded and boiled with water, producing a gloopy, dark, foul-tasting tea.
The first ingredient is a shrub called chacruna. It contains the most powerful psychoactive known to man: dimethyltryptamine (DMT), venerated by Flooders as the spirit molecule.
The human body, however, possesses a stomach enzyme that breaks down and metabolizes DMT on contact. The solution to this problem turned out to be the eponymous ayahuasca vine itself. The job of this plant is to temporarily deactivate the gastric enzyme causing the block, allowing the spirit molecule to be absorbed into the blood and fast-tracked to the brain’s pineal gland, or “third eye,” where the work is done.
When asked how their ancestors knew to combine these two unassuming shrubs from the tens of thousands on offer, shamans always give the same answer: the plants told them.
Time to find out what else they know.
I search for places in the United Kingdom that facilitate ayahuasca ceremonies.
I systematically work my way through the links offered up, going from chat forums to newspaper articles and blogs to psychotherapy sites and even the odd celebrity account of his or her “life-changing” experience.
So the good news is, the medicine has grown in popularity in the West, particularly over the past twenty years. The bad news: information on how to get hold of it in the United Kingdom is sketchy at best, with people pointing out it’s a word-of-mouth thing. It’s not surprising when considering DMT is a Class A drug (Schedule I in America), meaning serious prison time for those caught in possession.
In some ways, it’s smart. Governments want their people docile, unquestioning, and obedient. People are easier to control that way and less prone to trouble, each person knowing their place in the hive. They’re stuck in the endless cycle of working, consuming, and being afraid, believing they might win the lottery one day, or maybe get promoted at work, and that happiness is something to strive for but never actually achieve.
At the same time, the ruling classes aren’t stupid. They know people require the means to escape and let go every now and again, to break from the life they’re not living. So people should drink alcohol and pass out, smoke cigarettes, and if they’re really depressed, visit their doctors, who will prescribe expensive pills (made by large, profit-driven pharmaceutical companies) that will make them feel better about their shitty lives without having to change a thing. It’s fine to alter consciousness; it’s even okay to get addicted to substances, but only ones we—your benevolent leaders—endorse because we care about you and know what’s best.
All that other stuff that challenges the mind and forces people to ask questions about the nature of reality and the purpose of life, well, they’re called “bad drugs,” and people need to stay away from them.
Thinking about this stuff makes me angry, so I clear my mind and open Rosa’s Gmail account. The first things I see are messages from her mum, dad, and brother. Though it’s difficult and unnerving (in none of my previous lives did relatives left behind have this means of getting in touch), I force myself to keep focused on what really matters. I love them, of course, but there is a bigger picture here. My loyalties lie with Ashkai, and I can’t let myself become distracted or emotional.
After taking a deep breath, I start firing off e-mails to websites, journalists, and self-styled “psychonauts” who have written about the medicine, asking if they’re aware of ceremonies taking place in London. But who knows if any of them will even reply? I could easily be the police, after all.
I sigh, stretch, and glance at my watch. I’ve been here over an hour, and staring at this screen has given me a headache. It could get very bad very quickly, so I log off and walk toward the manager, who’s sitting behind a desk and playing with his phone. The wall behind him is covered with posters.
I’m about to cough so I can pay and get out of here when one of the images grabs my attention. It’s for a videogame called God of War and features a powerful-looking skinhead warrior with a facial scar holding a sword of fire and magic. It’s an arresting scene, full of drama and adventure, so my gaze lingers for a moment, particularly on the word “God,” which reminds me of Tammuz and the fact his parents named him after a deity, one associated with death and rebirth, no less. I’m wondering what the universe is trying to tell me about him. I feel the clues stacking up.
The birthmark on his neck, the feeling we’d met before, his living less than a mile from Highgate Cemetery, a comment about seeing me in another life, the sexual chemistry . . .
Then I remember what he told me when I asked what his big secret was: My surname is Hartman. Google me.
I sit back at the computer and do exactly that. At first, nothing jumps out, so I add “young criminal” into the mix, figuring that whatever he did to become “infamous” likely involved breaking the law in some way. It’s a hunch that pays off.
I open the first link. It takes me to a newspaper article from last summer. There’s a picture of Tammuz, head down, being harassed by paparazzi, a lawyer-looking guy in a sharp suit ushering him through the crowd.
I scan the headline and read the story.
Like a ripple on a lake, a smile spreads across my face.
NINE
By the time I get to Tammuz’s, the sky is a soft, reddish glow. It’s less than half an hour till dark, and it’s getting colder, too. Remembering I don’t have anywhere to stay and I’ll need to find a hotel later, I ring the bell and watch my breath steam the air, hoping the house idiot doesn’t answer.
But of course, he does, rolling his eyes and saying, “You keep showing up uninvited, we’ll have to get a restraining order.”
I look down at his groin. “I prefer talking to that; it’s more interesting.”
He grabs it and says, “You better believe it.” Then he says, “You wanna meet him again, just let me know. Crazy or not, I still would.”
I’m about to tell him thanks, I’ll bear that in mind when Tammuz shouts from the top of the stairs, asking who’s at the door.
The idiot looks over a shoulder. “Who d’ya think?”
Tammuz says, “Oh man, tell her to go away.”
“Tell her yourself, dude,” Jamie replies. Then he winks at me and struts off, disappearing into a room on the right.
Tammuz appears with damp, messy hair, looking like he’s just had a shower, smelling clean and fresh. He’s wearing slim jeans and a crinkly white T-shirt but no shoes or socks. It’s the first time his arms haven’t been covered since we met, and it turns out he’s big into tattoos.
The first thing he says is to come inside; he’s still worried about the police. He closes the door, adding, “What do you want?” The two of us stand in his gloomy hallway that smells of dust, boys, and cooking.
“To speak to you. It’s important.”
“Go on, then.”
“Can we go upstairs?”
“What if the police show?”
“If they had your number plate, they would have been here ages ago, so don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Easy ‘cos it’s true. Actually, let’s go get your bike; we can talk on the way.”
“I dunno . . .”
“You leave it much longer, it really will get stolen or trashed and for absolutely no reason.”
“What’s the time?”
Without looking at my watch, I tell him it’s gone five; the thing with the police was hours ago.
He thinks for a moment, then says, �
�Okay, let me get changed. Wait here.”
When he’s midway up the stairs, I ask if he’s got a spare helmet.
He stops and turns. “Yeah, why?”
“Couple of reasons: First, I learn from my mistakes. Second, I don’t want to be left alone on a rough estate. I’m just a girl, after all.”
He says, “Shame you don’t drive like one.”
Five minutes pass.
Tammuz appears wearing a jacket and carrying two helmets. He offers to put my bag in his room, saying it’s a bit of a walk, but I tell him, “Don’t worry; I need the exercise.”
When we’re outside, I explain how sorry I am about everything, but he cuts me off.
“Why’d you come back, Sam?” he asks, saying it gently, though.
I glance at the sky with its splashes of red, orange, and turquoise, using the time to think, knowing I need to tread carefully with this.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say.
“What?”
“The colors.”
He looks up. “I guess . . . but that’s not why you came back.”
“You always in such a rush?”
“Says the girl who nearly killed us today. Wish you’d stopped to appreciate the sky then.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“What do you want, Sam?” His tone was firmer this time.
So much for easing him in. “I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“An introduction.”
“To who?”
“People you’ve been involved with in the past.”
“What do you know about my past?”
“I looked you up online like you said, saw what you got in trouble for, and I think you can help me get something I need.”
He laughs. “If it’s a criminal record, I’m your man, but from what I’ve seen, you don’t need help with that.”
I keep quiet, and he taps the helmets together a couple times, then says, “What did you read? Most of it’s bollocks.”
We turn left, and in the distance I see a disheveled gray tower block, one of many architectural scars on the horizon, guessing that’s our destination.
I say, “That you were a drug dealer and got busted with enough Class As to see you sent down for a decade, including a garbage bag full of magic mushrooms. But you only did six months, so everyone freaked, saying you got off lightly because of your rich, powerful father and his connections, which is why the story made the papers. That about right?”
He clanks the helmets together again. “It was a grocery bag, not a trash bag, and it was a first offense. I was young, too, only seventeen, and if my old man did anything, I never knew about it. He despises me anyway.”
“Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t look out for you.”
“If he did pull strings, it was because he was embarrassed having a son in prison, especially one with tattoos and shitty grades.”
“What about your mum?”
“She’s all right, but they’re divorced. She lives in Devon with her special friend now. That’s who I was visiting at the weekend.”
“She’s the reason we met, then?”
“I’ll try not to hold it against her,” he says, barging me gently with a shoulder to let me know he doesn’t mean it, not at this moment, at least. I nudge him back.
We walk in silence for a while, passing an empty bus stop when Tammuz says, “Go on then, what’s the favor? And don’t tell me you need me to score for you.”
My eyes give the game away.
“Forget it,” he says. “Don’t even bother; they’d throw away the key this time.”
“Hear me out,” I ask. “All I need is an introduction to someone; that’s it. You won’t have to break the law.”
“Why’d you need me? You’re a pretty girl. Go to a club and ask around. Take ten minutes if that.”
“What I need is very specific.”
“Oh god, what weird shit are you into?”
“Heard of ayahuasca?”
He nods. “Never done it, but it’s similar to magic mushrooms and LSD, right, just more hardcore and spiritual?”
“Kind of.”
“There was something on Facebook the other day about how it helps cure crackheads and alcoholics. The guy being interviewed said it was like twenty years’ therapy in one night.”
“It’s a powerful medicine,” I say, feeling hopeful. “Any idea where I can get some?”
“Sounds like serious stuff.”
“It is, but I’ve worked with ayahuasca before. I know what I’m doing.”
“So speak to the people you got it from before.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Long story,” I say, followed by, “I really need your help, Tammuz,” as I reach out to touch his arm.
“You sick or something?”
“Why would you say that?”
“You said it was a medicine . . . you act like you have a death wish . . .”
“No, I’m fine, it’s a different kind of problem . . .”
Tammuz says, “If it was weed or coke or pills even . . . but this stuff . . .”
He shrugs, and I start probing, asking where he used to get magic mushrooms and how that contact might be able to help. He keeps deflecting, saying he isn’t in touch with people like that anymore. He’s trying to get his life on track.
I can sense he’s getting frustrated, so I stop pushing and change the subject as he leads me onto the grounds of the estate, its tower block looming directly over us now, an obelisk in the darkness.
We walk down a gentle slope, veering round to the right. Very soon, a car park comes into view, tucked in beside a long row of garages.
Tammuz stops dead, keeping us in the shadows. “Damn, we’re too late.”
“Why?” I say, following his gaze, spotting a black guy wearing a bright orange jacket and leaning on a moped, chatting with a girl. The bike’s front wheel points our way, a nearby lamppost illuminating the scene.
I smile. “Don’t worry; it’ll be okay.”
“I recognize the guy in orange; he’s bad news. Let’s go.”
“Who is he?”
“Tried to mug me a couple weeks back,” Tammuz says, sounding jittery.
“Pulled a knife as I was coming out the tube; thought I was gonna die. Turns out he targets people like me all the time. Same thing happened to a mate of mine.”
“What do you mean people like you?”
“Middle-class white boys.”
“What did you do?”
“What do you think? I ran very fast in the opposite direction.”
I feel myself getting angry, hating the idea of Tammuz being scared like that. “He chased you?”
“Who cares? Let’s just go before he sees us.”
“Gimme the keys,” I say. “Wait by the road; I’ll be up in a sec.”
“Not a chance,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Come on, we’re going.”
I shrug him off. “I’ve got this under control.”
“Forget it,” he says. “There’s no way either of us are getting stabbed over a hairdryer on wheels.”
“Nobody’s getting stabbed,” I say, heading toward the car park.
Tammuz calls after me and says, “Come back you idiot; this is stupid!” but I keep going, and I hear “Fuck sake” followed by his footsteps. I feel him just behind me now.
When I’m close enough to Orange and his girlfriend, I say, “Thanks for looking after it for us,” my body language friendly and relaxed as I come to a halt beside the front wheel of the bike. I notice the guy has cane rolls and is about the same age as Rosa.
The girl, who’s white, screws her face up and sucks air through her back teeth. She’s all forehead, plucked eyebrows, and big jewelry. “Da fuck you say, bitch?”
I use my eyes to let her know I’m not afraid; I’m the person in control here. “We’re here to pick our bike up.”
“What bike?” Orange says, still leaning o
n the seat, smoking a cigarette. The girl echoes, “Yeah, what bike, skank?”
He tells her, “Hush, I’ve got this,” and she sucks teeth again.
Behind me, Tammuz says, “Let’s go, Sam.”
Orange stands, and he’s bigger than anticipated. He looks over my shoulder and says, “Was I talking to you, bruv? You hear me arx you a question?”
Tammuz doesn’t respond, and the bully puffs his chest out and snarls. “Nuttin’ to say all of a sudden, bruv? Cat got your tongue, yeah? Mind your business then before I bitch slap you, can’t you see the men are talking?”
Forehead girl bursts out laughing and points at me. “Nah, allow it! He just called you a man, innit, proper dissed you coz a’ your skanky hair. You got cancer or what? And what’s that nasty mark on your face, bird shit?”
The guy tells her to shut her mouth, and then looks at me and smokes, scanning me with his eyes like I’m hanging meat. “What bike?” he repeats, licking his lips and smiling.
“That one,” I say with a nod. The girl is making a phone call now.
He glances at it. “If dis is your ride, babe, what’s it doin’ in my yard?”
“We were seeing a friend.”
“They live ‘ere?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s their name?”
“None of your business.”
He lets out a big, confident laugh. “Everything here is my bidness,” he says, stepping closer. “Sure we can work summit out, doh, know what I’m sayin’, fine ting like you.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I’m about to break it when Tammuz steps forward and tells him to leave me alone. Tammuz’s voice is trembling.
The mugger explodes into a rage, flicking his cigarette away and pushing past me, getting in Tammuz’s face. He says if he chats shit again he’s getting shanked. Forehead is laughing and on the phone, telling someone to “get round here coz some chiefs are being disrespectful and Robbie’s on a madness.” Robbie says, “Wait a minute, you look familiar, bruv, where do I know you from?”
Tammuz is so scared he can’t speak, and Robbie erupts again, grabbing fistfuls of his coat. “I arxed you a question, bruv, where do I know you from?”
“Nowhere,” Tammuz says. “I mean, I don’t know . . .”