by Frost, NJ
What the fuck did she do to push him so completely over the edge?
“I can’t… it’s too painful.” He told me. “Too painful to even think about.”
I knew not to press him on this. Whatever she’d done, it was the reason why he was in this state.
“But, you’d really never touch her?” He asked this like the idea was unthinkable.
“I said I wouldn’t.”
“You promise? No matter how hard she gives you the fucking come on? And she will, if you ever cross paths.”
Suddenly it made sense why I’d never seen this girl. He thought that I wouldn’t be able to keep my dick in my pants. That I’d fuck him over, with her – even though we were like brothers and fucking my friend’s girls has always been a huge no no for me. This woman had completely annihilated his sense of reason.
“I shouldn’t fucking have to, but yeah, I promise.” I told him.
“That means a lot… such a fucking lot.”
He was fighting back tears as he said this. Who was this wreck of a man and what kind of girl would tear someone apart like this?
“You’re better off without her.” I told him. “Seriously. That’s if you can get your shit together and get yourself cleaned up. You’re Jamie. Fucking. Grimes – wunderkind of the rock world, for fuck’s sake. She’s just a girl. Don’t let a girl fucking sink you.”
“She’s not just a girl though.”’
I knew that empty faraway look. I recognised it for what it was and it gave me the chills. He’d already checked out. I knew even then that it would only be a matter of time until I’d be sitting here drinking to his memory. And sure enough, here I am.
Darcey’s considerable powers of persuasion are not impaired even after knocking back the best part of two bottles of wine. By six o’clock we’re settled in The Feathers, the haunt of the old St Martin’s set. I wasn’t feeling particularly sociable, but the alternative was to stay home with that bag of gear burning a hole in my conscience. I’d have ended up getting fucking blottoed and not resurfacing for a day or two. I decided to do the right thing, mainly because I didn’t want to be alone tonight.
I was part of this crowd once, but now I feel so apart from it – so distant. I’m polite. I speak to people, laugh at their jokes, tell them they haven’t changed since I last saw them. I drink with them. I go outside for a smoke. But I feel nothing. Just empty. My thoughts and lines of conversation unravel as I’m forming them, and they all pull me back to Jamie, and to her. This whole charade of sociability to deal with our grief is such a fraud. It’s so fake.
I’m outside having a smoke when a girl approaches me who I half recognise. She’s one of the art school crowd and pretty enough. I think I may have fucked her way, way back, but she doesn’t set my heart racing, she doesn’t make my whole fucking body feel alive with need.
“Blake… long time no see.” She says coolly. But I can tell, by the way she’s chewing on her lip, she’s interested in me. Or rather, interested in what’s in my pants.
I smile at her blandly. I clock the Welsh accent, but I have no fucking clue what her name is.
“Carys.” She fills in, as if sensing me drawing a blank.
“Ah, yes Carys... You were in my life class?”
“Art criticism.”
“Sorry, my head’s all over the place. You know, with all this shit with Jamie.”
“You two were close.” She’s not asking this, just stating it. There’s genuine sympathy in her eyes.
“Not that I’d forget a face like yours.” I offer as an appeasement, smoothly changing the subject.
She blushes fiercely. She really is very pretty. She just seems too nice. The kind of girl I would have enjoyed corrupting in my younger days.
“Did we…” I prompt, flashing her my bad boy smile, ramping up the charm. She blushes again confirming my suspicions.
Of course we did. I fucked most of the pretty girls in my classes. There were so many of them and the drugs were so abundant. Those conquests kind of merge into one; they’re all just a blur.
“Jamie and I... we used to throw a sick party, didn’t we?” I grin.
This flirtation is just what I need. The perfect distraction from all the emotional crap I don’t want to deal with.
Carys is silent for a moment and then she confesses.
“I lost my virtue at one of them.” She’s still blushing, but getting bolder now, holding my gaze.
“Not to a nasty boy like me? Surely?”
The look on her face tells me that she did.
Come to think of it, I did pop a few virgin’s cherries during my St Martin’s rampage. It was a consequence of having a reputation like mine. It was like a honey trap to all those innocent good girls wanting to dirty up their own reputations.
“Really?” I ask feeling a little bit smug, but like a shit for not remembering her.
“Really.”
“I feel like I don’t really need to ask,” I smirk confidently, “but was it good?”
“It was an eye opener.” She smirks back.
As our conversation takes this unexpected turn and my day long drinking session finally catches up with me, Carys doesn’t seem like such a good girl anymore, and my horniness rears its head.
“What’s say we go round everybody up and I throw another party to debauch you at?” I say cockily. Her eyes light up in response.
This is party number three this week. There’s been one every night. Just like last week which was also a blur of drinking, partying and random hook ups. It may seem crass that indulging in copious amounts of sex and booze is how I’m dealing with Jamie’s death, but it’s the only way I know how – that doesn’t involve class A substances. Darcey has been tolerant of my acting out. She’s been subtle about it, but she’s definitely keeping an eye on me, like she would a completely irresponsible younger brother.
I’m trying to be good I really am, but I’m still feeling despicable. Every girl I’ve fucked has had her face. I’ve come so hard, so many times thinking about Sylvie Smith that I’m worried that it’s becoming another unhealthy addiction. I’ve even resorted to stalking her online to get my fix of her beautiful face. I didn’t think to do it before, when Jamie was being all shady about her. I’ve never been one to stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, and I wasn’t that fucking interested in who she was. She was just the thorn in Jamie’s side. That was until last week.
Since then I’ve been bombarded with photo after photo of her partying, wrapped around some fucking rock star or other. She may be a shit hot A&R girl, the It girl who discovered and signed Jamie, and the likes of Vertigo, Elsa Wood, The Weeks – I have to concede, the list is pretty fucking impressive – but it’s also clear as day that she’s a rampant groupie. Not that I’m averse to the odd groupie now and then, but it seems so beneath her, so shallow. Maybe Sylvie Smith is all surface, maybe there’s nothing underneath that beautiful exterior of hers. But the artist in me is so drawn to that exterior – I have an unshakable urge to shatter it, to see if there’s the faintest glimmer of remorse there, or even a heart.
To balance out all the debauchery, I’ve been working out like a madman, trying to purge my seemingly insatiable urges. To fuck, to drink, to smoke, to do drugs, to fuck her. But I feel like a husk of a man. Empty. Soulless. Like nothing will ever be enough.
I haven’t fucked the same girl twice during my time in London, but Carys is here again tonight, and she’s so fucking accommodating. She bends to my desires so easily, so willing to please, to be whoever I want her to be. It helps that her long brunette hair is in a twisted scruffy plait tonight. Even with my Jack goggles on she’s a poor replica of Sylvie, but reminiscent enough that my cock springs to attention the minute I set eyes on her. Her skimpy clothes are clearly intended to catch my eye. They’re an invitation which I won’t be turning down.
I end up fucking Carys on the stairs. I’m that desperate. A beautiful, harsh face swims before my eyes, not the face of the gi
rl I’m fucking. The girl I’m fucking is not complaining though. She’s gasping my name over and over.
Then I hear another voice say my name.
“Blake!”
It’s the last voice on earth I wanted to be hearing tonight. It’s cold and full of hate. I’m pulled out of my fantasy instantly. It’s the fucking Stepwitch!
I pull out of Carys unsatisfied, and make myself decent while she scrambles to do the same. I turn to the Stepwitch. Her face is a fucking picture. Fury and something darker are simmering there.
“Mother?” I say, the word dripping with sarcasm.
“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me!” She hisses. “Care to explain what’s going on here Blake?”
“I’d have thought that was obvious. What’s been going on for the past two weeks – partying, and lots of it. You know, booze, drugs, fucking… everywhere.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Dad okayed it.”
My Father’s expression is like thunder, but as Stepwitch turns on him he visibly shrinks under her icy wrath.
“You knew about this Charles? You told me he was coming up for the funeral; that was all.”
My father’s mouth is opening and closing, like he’s struggling for air rather than an excuse, or someone else to blame. He’s an errant schoolboy facing the headmistress. I feel a bit like a shit for dropping him in it with her. But she needs to know she’s not the fucking Queen around here.
“I agree to cut short our trip,” she seethes at my father, “and I arrive here to find that you’ve been letting him use our family home, as a drugs den and a brothel – for how long? Two weeks? And you’re okay with this?”
My father finally finds his voice.
“No, I’m not okay with this. I told him to treat this house with respect while he was here.”
“You told me not to trash the place, which I haven’t.” I retort.
My father shrinks a little more at the sound of Stepwitch’s displeased huff, but she rounds on me instead.
“I don’t care what he did or didn’t tell you.” She spits at me. “You abused your father’s trust. I want you out of here. Now!”
“It’s not your place to tell me to leave. This isn’t your house.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.” She sneers.
“Tell her.” I plead with my father.
He struggles to meet my eye.
“You’d better leave Blake.” He says quietly, examining the stairs carpet a little too intently.
“Fine! That’s just fucking fine by me. I’ll get my things.”
“And don’t come back!” The Witch calls after me as I disappear into my room.
I turn to slam the door behind me, but Carys is in the doorway. She steps towards me, her face a picture of concern.
“You need somewhere to stay tonight?”
“I guess I do.” I say heavily.
The light that sparks in Carys’ eyes concerns me. She’s a nice girl. I don’t want to hurt her.
“But I’ll crash at Darcey’s. Thanks for the offer though.” I add.
Carys nods and then steps into me. She wraps her arms around me tenderly, and I let her. She strokes my back gently, and it’s such a simple, platonic gesture my heart aches a little. Why can’t I let myself be loved by a girl like this? I’m so fucked up. For one brief moment, I let myself have this, the feeling of being cared for and not desired.
“Your timing is impeccable as always Blake.” Darcey says wryly. Not at all self-conscious that she’s answered the door in just a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else.
I try to keep my eyes averted from her tits, but it’s impossible.
“Nice view.” I comment, cocking an eyebrow at her pierced nipples.
“Oh please! Save it for someone who gives a fuck about your bad boy good looks.”
I laugh, shaking my head. I fucking love this girl. She always knows how to cut me right down to size.
“So… you finally got busted?” She asks, taking in my belongings sitting on the doorstep and the Alexander McQueen suit cover slung over my shoulder.
I shrug at her.
“Wondered how long it would take… I suppose you’d better come in then.”
She stomps back upstairs to finish off whatever girl she has waiting there for her.
“Make yourself at home.” She calls down to me. “I could be a while.”
It’s the funeral tomorrow.
I’ve spent the last two weeks, trying not to think about it. Every time I do I can’t breathe. I’ve thrown myself into work and into Chris Kavanagh, who has been more than accommodating. I’m getting my fill of him now because he’s heading off on tour in just over a months’ time. He wanted me stay with him tonight, but it didn’t feel right. After I’m done here, I’m heading home.
I’m hovering on the doorstep of Jamie’s house. I got a message from his Mum, asking me to collect a box of vinyls from his place that she thought I might want. For all the happy times I’ve spent here, there have been as many dark ones, and this has to be one of the worst. I feel uncomfortable being back here, knowing that this is where he died – all alone.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I know that places can have an atmosphere – that lives lived within, and even deaths, get written and bound into the walls. I feel on edge from the moment I step through the door. If I let myself be ridiculous, I could almost believe that I’m not alone. It’s like the weight of an uncomfortable stare as I move through the empty house. Val has left the box for me on the kitchen island. At least it’ll be a quick in and out job.
As I open up the box, just to have a quick peek, my heart skitters. I’d told myself that I wasn’t going to cry, but I suddenly find myself fighting traitorous tears back. The seven inch that I bought for Jamie when we were in Amsterdam for Valentine’s Day is lying face up on the top of the stack.
It’s a rare edition of Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side with Perfect Day as the B-side. The sleeve is far from mint, but the vinyl inside is surprisingly pristine. This record is so symbolic of mine and Jamie’s whole relationship. I remember joking that it must have been made for us. It sounds like such a cliché but being with him was a walk on the wild side, quite literally. He was a true rock star. But amongst all the hedonistic craziness there were many of those ‘perfect days’, ones that sit deep in my soul. The first time we listened to this record together was one of our best.
I open the sleeve, needing to spark that memory back to life, but the vinyl is gone. An emptiness that verges on panic grips me. Could it have been dumped by mistake? That thought is like another blow to my heart. I rifle through the box checking in the other sleeves, hoping it’s got mixed up. But despite Jamie’s haphazard lifestyle, he was particularly anal about his music. He’d never not put a record back in its sleeve, unless… he’d been playing it.
Something about this – the possibility that he’d actually been playing this particular record, around the time he died – is so much worse than the thought of it simply being lost. Part of me doesn’t want to know. It’s telling me leave this box, and all the memories it contains, to walk out the door and to never look back. But something stronger is pulling at me as I climb the stairs, as I open Jamie’s bedroom door.
My heart is racing and I’m finding it hard to breathe evenly as I crack the door open wider. I haven’t been in this room since…
Jamie’s parents mustn’t have been able to face it either. It appears untouched. The bed is stripped down, but that’s all that gives away what happened in here. The bedside table, clear of drug paraphernalia, is the only other clue that he isn’t going to bluster in here at any moment.
The dust cover is off his vintage turntable. Of course, he had a state of the art sound system – obligatory for every successful rock star – wired into every room of the house, but Jamie was actually a man of much simpler tastes. This old-school record player that he found in a house clearance sale, in Greenwich, gave him far more pleasure than all his newer shinier boy toys put together.
> I remember so many lost hours and days whiled away in this room, me educating him on the virtues of vinyl, listening to his growing record collection, talking, fucking, Jamie writing songs, fooling around, kissing.
As I was dreading, Lou Reed is indeed on the turntable, the B-side face up. The needle is still down; the tone arm stopped half way through the track. So fucking symbolic it hurts.
I lift the arm and place it back. The vinyl is still so pristine, so cared for. It’s then that I notice something just visible in the space between the turntable’s feet, like it got pushed under there and forgotten. A piece of folded yellow paper. My heart thrums. I know it must be something written by Jamie, a scrap of a song perhaps – he always composed his lyrics in legal notepads.
I tease the paper out and recoil a little when I see my name written on it in. Even when he was fucked up he still wrote so beautifully. My heart hurts. My world stops as I unfold it.
It is a set of lyrics, addressed to me in Jamie’s unmistakable handwriting. I sit down on the bed to read them, and if it’s at all possible, the pain in my heart multiplies a thousandfold.
I’m dreading the funeral. The pit of my stomach feels knotted with anxiety. After putting off the inevitable for as long as possible, I eventually cave into Darcey’s nagging to get my arse into gear and get ready.
“You look like shit!” She scolds as she gives me the once-over when I’m finally suited and booted.
“Thanks.” I reply dryly.
I straighten my tie and examine my face in the mirror. I do look like shit. I guess not sleeping on top of two weeks of relentless drinking have taken their toll. I have pale greenish pallor that matches the colour of my eyes. With the dark circles etched under them, I think I look like a ghost.
I’m not one of those guys who spends hours in the mirror sculpting his hair just so. I run a hand through it to try to tame the scruffy black mess, but with little success. I really can’t be arsed. I’ve had a shave. That’s more than enough grooming for one day.