“It’s a combination of meth and DMT, so it’s hard to predict. It all depends on your tolerance,” he was saying. “Of course it could just go straight to your brain and cause a fatal seizure. It also depends on how clean the rig is. So let’s give it a go shall we? Remember hold still. If this kick doesn’t kill you, you’ll be on one hell of a ride; this is after all a cocktail of our best amphetamine with our best hallucinogen. It’s a shame Lucy isn’t here to see this,” he was saying. “But she will. You see I’m going to film you, so that she can see. It’s only fair, you saw her. You thought that was a good experiment? Now let’s try this experiment, let’s just see what happens.” He touched the point of the needle to the eye of the tattooed scorpion, right on the jugular. “Hold still,” he whispered. The needle punctured the skin and a thin cloud of blood seeped into the chamber of the syringe. Gregor pushed the plunger all the way down.
Martin started coming up the stairs. Alison hurriedly replaced the page on to the top of the bundle and picked up the empty cups. She was walking out the door just as Martin reached the top of the stairs. She felt flushed and avoided his eyes as she stood aside to let him pass into his room. Martin didn’t turn around. He just closed the door. Alison stood for a moment, then went down the stairs. At the bottom step she turned and called, “I was talking to my folks. I was thinking of going up to the lake for the weekend. What do you think?”
Martin’s voice came from behind the closed door, “That sounds great. You go.”
“I go?”
“I can’t leave this now.”
Alison stopped still for a few moments with her hand on the stair rail, looking up at the light coming from underneath the door. “I go,” she said.
* * *
That Friday, walking up the hill from the train station, Alison thought about how she would confront Martin. All day at work she hadn’t been able to concentrate. The open plan of the office meant that she could see everyone else tapping on their keyboards and talking into their phones, and she wondered what their home lives were like. None of them lived with someone like Martin, she knew that, and she cherished how different he was. But it wasn’t working out. Where was the life they had looked forward to together? Surely they hadn’t been together long enough to start ignoring one another?
By the time she was in front of the house she was ready to go upstairs and tell him to stop his writing until they had talked this through.
When she opened the door the warm aroma of fried garlic and spring onions mixed with fresh bread filled the house and Martin came out from the kitchen. Before she could say anything he apologized. His head was so deep in the book, he was sorry, he would make it up. He took her jacket from her and hung it up.
The table was set. Alison sat down in front of a smoked salmon and fresh salad with a walnut mustard and goat cheese dressing. She picked up her fork and tried to remember what she was going to say to him, but he got in there first, talking as she took her first bite. He appreciated how hard she worked and he knew that it must seem like he didn’t do anything. He admired her for how hard she worked, how she put up with him, all that she was doing for them together.
As he talked he went back into the kitchen and took the freshly baked bread rolls from the oven, putting them in a basket and bringing it to the table. He must look like a total loser from her point of view, sitting up in his room, only thinking about a world which wasn’t real, trying to describe and rationalise actions of people who only existed in his head.
He sat opposite her. Thank you, he said, for putting up with me. I will make it up to you, he said, I promise. He picked up the wine bottle and went to pour. She put her hand over her glass.
“I’m still driving up to the lake tonight. Are you coming with me?”
He put down the bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No.”
They looked at each other. There was silence for a moment.
“I can’t now,” he said. “I’m right in the middle of it, I’ve just got to get through this next episode. I don’t want to break the rhythm.”
“Okay,” she said. “But we need to do something together soon. Okay? I need for us to do something together.”
“We will, I promise we will, and I don’t want to let you down. But I need to do this.” Martin looked at her imploringly.
Alison tapped her hand on his and drew it back to cut her salmon. “Don’t look so upset. Maybe a few days apart will be good for us anyway.”
As she ate she regarded him. It was hard to remain angry at him when he took things so deeply. Maybe all they needed was a bit of space. She looked out the window. At the end of the garden, the trees had grown and thickened, and she saw their tops against the darkening sky. They leaned and nodded gently toward each other, their branches reaching and missing, then touching, then missing again.
“I should leave soon if I’m going,” she said. “I don’t want to drive all the way in the dark. That was lovely.”
Within ten minutes he was waving goodbye, and the driveway was empty. He stepped back into the frame of the front door. He saw lights come on and curtains close in the windows of the houses on the opposite side of the street. A flock of crows passed overhead. He looked up and watched them fly. Against the fading sunlight he saw their fluid unity, he listened to the echoes of their sharp coarse calls shifting and changing with the shape of their flight as they flew to roost in the dark woods beyond.
Martin stepped back inside the front door and closed it. He stood for a moment as the silence established its momentum, and then sat down on the bottom stair. He took his phone from his pocket. Will be there within the hour, he texted. He pressed send.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Martin was on the train into the city. The carriage was half-full. This train had come a long way before it had stopped for him, and the people on it were tired and quiet.
Outside the shadows were claiming the countryside. In the distance the lights from the high rises were peering at him like guardian eyes at the edge of the city. He was coming from the new streets and clean walls of his estate, where even now the loose leaves stuttering their way across the dark smooth tarmac between the houses were making patterns on the streets which had never been made before, and he was entering the city, where the concrete was stained and aged, where every road had been crossed in every way it could be, where the shadows had been filled with every dark possibility, and where the street lamps were pushing old light through dense used air.
Martin wondered what it would be like to unthink something. Once something developed in your mind, once a thought had created shape, it could never be undone. The best you can do, he decided as the train sped toward the city and the night, is isolate it.
* * *
The last time Ozzy had seen Martin he was waving good-bye to him out of the back window of a police car. It was a matter of bad luck. It could have been either of them being taken away, but the way it worked out it was Ozzy in the back seat and Martin left with the long walk home. They had been out for the night, Martin talking about quitting the bar and just writing, Ozzy saying that if he quit the bar he wouldn’t have any decent material to write about. Martin teased Ozzy that he was just trying to get him to stay because he would miss him, and Ozzy said that was bullshit, that Martin going meant just there was a vacancy which could be filled by somebody much better looking with a better pair of tits.
They had been drinking for hours, with Martin threatening to go home as he finished each drink, either back to his damp bedsit or back to Alison’s warm bed. Ozzy said that he was nuts to even see it as a choice—how could he not go back to Alison’s? Martin’s rationale was that he didn’t want Alison to think he had no life beyond her, he had to have some level of independence. The bedsit was dark and damp, but it was his space at least. On the other hand, he really didn’t want to go back there. He couldn’t decide, and the more he drank the less he cared about the choice. Then Ozzy suggested scoring some weed.
After a taxi
ride to the wrong place and then a long drunken walk they finally reached the street where Ozzy’s dealer lived. Ozzy went in and Martin waited on the street. It was mostly shop fronts with the shutters down and doors in shadows. Ozzy finally came back out smiling and saying they were going to have a great night.
They walked for about thirty seconds when two young guys came up behind them, pushed them against the wall, reached into Ozzy’s jacket, took the bag of weed, and ran. Ozzy and Martin ran after them. They followed them down a narrow lane and saw them jump over a fence. They followed, Ozzy shouting after them, and Martin falling behind and rolling through flowerbeds as they ran through back gardens and yards, climbing over fences and wire. Martin watched as Ozzy clambered over a fence and dropped down on the other side. He heard a moan and cursing. Then barking and growling.
“Don’t come over!” Ozzy called. Martin looked around the back yard he was in. There was a gate. He opened the gate and was out in the back alley. He walked to the fence of the garden Ozzy was in. The fence was high. He called over.
“Are you okay man?”
“There’s no fucking way out!” Ozzy shouted back. “It’s deeper than the other gardens, I can’t climb out!”
“Is there a dog?”
“Fucking damn right there’s a dog! He’s not happy. It’s okay, there’s a good boy.”
The growling increased in volume.
“Where did those two guys go?”
“Fuck knows.”
“How about climbing up on something? Is there anything?”
“No, nothing. Oh, shit, there’s a light coming on. Shit, shit—they’ve seen me—shit.”
There was a minute of silence, broken by the occasional growl, before a window opened and a woman’s voice said, “We’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”
Ozzy called back, “Hey I’m not here to, well—I’m here by accident, I don’t want to steal anything. I’m not—if you could just let me—” The dog started barking again and the window shut.
“Ah, come on, I’m here by accident! Please? You miserable old bitch? Please?”
“You got to be more friendly, Oz,” Martin called over the fence. “Don’t scare her off. Ask her for a cup of tea.”
So Ozzy was stuck in the yard and the police were on their way. With Martin on one side of the fence and Ozzy on the other they figured out what they were going to do. They reckoned those kids probably did that to guys coming out of the dealer’s place on a regular basis, the little bastards. They changed the story. Ozzy threw over his phone. He had been chasing two guys who had stolen his phone. That was the story.
Soon Martin could hear Ozzy petting the dog on the other side saying, “There’s a good boy, good boy. He’s fine now, Martin, he’s wagging his tail. There’s a good boy.” In another few minutes they were laughing. “At least I’ll get a lift back into the city centre,” laughed Ozzy.
When the police did turn up, Martin walked around to the main road and watched as Ozzy was brought out the front door and loaded into the police car. As the car pulled away, Ozzy flashed Martin a smile and little low wave out the back window. He saw Martin get smaller and smaller on the empty street.
Now, as Martin walked into the club, Ozzy could see he hadn’t been taking care of himself. He was wearing a faded check shirt and blue jeans. His unruly, wavy hair with the occasional curl was down to his shoulders and he had a beard, wiry and unkempt, creeping up to his cheekbones. His belly was pushing into his shirt. He smiled when he saw Ozzy.
As he walked over Ozzy threw his arms in the air, “Shit! Just ’cause you’re trying to be a fucking writer doesn’t mean you have to try so hard to look like one! What are you writing, a cook book?”
“Well, it’s good to see you too, and I see the hunger strike is still in place?”
“This is just muscle, pure muscle and bone. I’m not carrying any extra around,” he said, poking Martin in the stomach. “What’s with the wild west look?” He tugged at Martin’s beard. “You should have gone for the power goatee.” He stroked his own moustache and goatee like a villain considering how long his victim has before the train comes.
“Yes, I see you’ve got the pirate look down,” replied Martin, pointing at the red bandana covering Ozzy’s hair.
“Well, at least pirates get to plunder. Cocktail?”
“Just a beer for the moment, Oz. How’s Sal?”
“Sal?”
“Your girlfriend. Sally?”
“Oh! Sally! Sal, yeah. No she’s not on the scene any more. Um, no, yeah, that stopped working out. Zoe is here, though. I been seeing her for a few weeks now.”
“Where is she?”
“I think she’s off hassling the DJ. She’ll be back now. She is fiery, man. So how about it? How are things?”
“Alison is away for the weekend, so …”
“So party! Aha!”
“You know, just been …”
“Here she is.”
Zoe approached them. She was short and bleach blonde with leather trousers and a black netted top through which Martin could make out a purple bra pushing her little breasts into an unnatural cleavage.
“Any joy?” Ozzy asked.
“Nah, the guy’s a prick with a prick’s iPod full of music by pricks. We can’t hang round here. I’m fucked if I’m listening to this wanky shit all night.”
“I was just going to get another round in.”
“Don’t bother. Is this your mate then?”
“Yeah, Martin, Zoe. Zoe, Martin.”
“Well where will we go then?”
Martin said, “I never liked this place anyway.”
“Don’t know, but let’s get out of here,” Zoe said, and Ozzy pursed his lips around his straw and drained the last of his cocktail from the glass. Then they left the club, walking out into the warm city air.
“There’s always the Alabama,” said Martin.
“No fucking way,” said Zoe “Not after the last time.”
“What happened last time?” They stopped at the corner, waiting for the lights to change.
“Zoe got done in the face,” Ozzy said. The traffic whizzed past.
“What? Someone hit you?”
“Fucking damn right someone hit me. This tart smashed me in the face with her stiletto.” The traffic stopped and the green man flashed and beeped. They stepped onto the road.
Martin shook his head and asked, “Why? Why did she hit you?”
“Fuck knows. I didn’t do a thing, didn’t even see her before she started giving me a hard time, then I tell her to fuck off and she reaches down and then she’s got her stiletto in her hand and she fucking hits me with it, straight in the fucking face by my nose. Here look, you can see it. Look.” She stopped and turned to Martin, pointing to her face. He leaned down to see. Her skin was covered in a greasy film of a tan foundation. He couldn’t see any marks, just smears where the make-up was too thick.
“I, um, I can’t see.…”
Cars started beeping. The lights had changed. They were still in the middle of the road. She was still pointing at her face.
“It’s right there, right there, a big mark from where she stabbed me with her heel! Bitch.”
The cars beeped again, someone was shouting out their window. Zoe turned. “Fuck off!!” she shouted, pulling up her top to expose her bra, then continuing to the other side of the road. Martin gave a wave of apology before following her. As the cars drove past they gave long aggressive beeps. Ozzy was waiting on the footpath rolling a cigarette.
“Not the Alabama then. How ’bout J.D.’s?” He licked the cigarette paper and rolled it tight, then put it between his lips, smiling. “They got happy hour till ten.”
“J.D.’s,” Zoe said, and took it from him, putting it in her mouth, pouting her lips, and closing her eyes. Ozzy held the lighter and lit the end. She inhaled deeply. The tobacco glowed. Ozzy put his arm over her shoulder and they both turned and started to walk.
Martin followed th
em. Ozzy was much taller than Zoe, and as he rested his arm across her shoulders, she held onto his hand with both of hers and every now and then pressed her cheek against it. His jeans were low around his waist and his loose white t-shirt wasn’t doing much to hide his skeletal frame. His hair was black and lank, half covered by the red bandana. She was wearing Doc Martins. Her trousers were black leather, old worn leather, like an old couch. Martin could see the dark roots of her hair, could see rolls of skin bunching above her skirt through her netted top.
Ozzy leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She squeezed a bit closer to him. She came up to just below his shoulder. Despite the size difference, they seemed to walk in step. They looked comfortable together, passing the rolled cigarette back and to, before tossing it on the footpath.
The night was coming down into the city, but it didn’t feel cold. Taxis pulled over, emptying groups of guys and bunches of girls onto the street. The guys were puffing their chests out and the girls were keeping close to each other, laughing and clutching hand bags. It was just the start of the night, and the lights of the club signs were just starting to come into their own, just starting to stake their place, to make sense in the clutter of light of the city centre.
As they approached J.D.’s Ozzy turned his head and said, “No pussying out now, you’ve got no excuse. We haven’t been out in ages. Yeah?”
Inside J.D.’s they ordered more double cocktails despite Martin protesting that he only wanted a beer. When Zoe went to the toilets, Martin said, “Shit that’s terrible what happened at the Alabama. Was she really hurt?”
Ozzy shook his head. “Not as bad as the other one was. What was she telling you?”
“That some girl hit her in the face with her stiletto for no reason.”
Ozzy nearly spat his drink out. “Ha! No reason! Zoe had wound her up so far that the girl snapped. She was calling the girl a slag and a bitch and yeah, she took her shoe off and went for Zoe. I don’t really know what the fuck it was all about, I think that it had something to do with Zoe’s ex, but really …”
“Didn’t you ask her what it was all about?”
The Fly Guy Page 7