by Bella Mackie
No, Andrew, of course I fucking haven’t. Normal people don’t think about frogs and depression. Normal people don’t spend their days in dingy marshes off a dual carriageway waiting for visitors who never come. But then, normal people don’t try to annihilate their entire families so I really should learn to judge less and listen more. I opened my eyes wide.
‘It’s a secretion from a type of frog and there’s a ton of research on how it helps to cure depression and addiction. We’re all so dependent on western medicine pushed on us by big pharma, but it’s becoming so clear that nature offers us better ways to tackle our human struggles. Kambo, man …’ he paused. ‘It’s worked miracles on so many people.’ He glanced over at Roger to make sure he wasn’t listening and turned back to me. ‘That’s why I’ve got these frogs at home. I’m trying to perfect the dosage. Too much and you vomit uncontrollably. It’s a tricky process. And I’m breeding them so that I can increase my supply and help more people.’
I didn’t need to fake interest by now. What a weird path for Andrew to take, doping himself up with frog juice. Surely there must be a nice Harley Street therapist available to deal with his issues in a less bonkers way? Then again, rich kids have always tried to forge their own path, stymied by a lack of drive and comfort levels that make hard work seem unnecessary. Some become club promoters. Some weed-smoking artists. Why not a frog dealer?
I bombarded him with questions, and told him I thought he was brave. I’m not ashamed to say I opened up about my own personal struggle with depression and made myself vulnerable in front of him. Didn’t matter that it was all tosh and that despite having very good reason to experience deep sadness, I had been lucky enough to swerve it. Men like women being vulnerable. They like to feel that we might need help, despite any surface-level confidence.
By the time we left the pub, I felt like I’d cracked him. And yet my shoulders were tense and my hands were balled up into fists as I walked to the station. He was a nice man, I thought, though fairly clueless. I didn’t feel the acid burning in my throat when I thought about him like I did when I conjured him as an image of his father or grandfather. And that feeling, the ever stoked anger which made my ears feel as though they were on fire, that’s what made it easy to kill Jeremy and Kathleen. That’s what made it fun. I didn’t feel that corrosive sensation in my windpipe for weeks afterwards. How would I enjoy this new challenge if I couldn’t summon the acid?
By the next shift, we’d swapped numbers (one of the perils of a burner phone is never knowing your own number off by heart) and would text each other during the week with links to research papers we thought the other would enjoy. I didn’t read anything he suggested, but it was easy to react appropriately with a quick skim of the conclusion. God bless these pointless academics who spend years doing some mind-numbing survey that nobody will read but helpfully tack on a footnote which summarises it all in two minutes. Texting might sound like there was flirting going on, but thankfully I think Andrew really just enjoyed someone who was willing to indulge his niche interest in amphibians and hallucinogens. The alternative would’ve added a hideous dimension to what I hoped would be a fairly straightforward catch and kill.
Four weeks in and we were firm friends. I knew where he lived (Tottenham in a houseshare with four other guys, all doing PhDs), what his favourite novel was (something by William Boyd, but I forget), and that he was a strict vegan. We started going to the dreary pub after work on Saturday, where we’d get pretty drunk and I’d make jokes about Roger until he’d tell me off. By now, I knew how I’d kill him. Much like with my grandparents, the plan was vague in form and had the potential to fail, but I was confident after my first foray, and Andrew was trusting to a fault. After the pub one Saturday, I mooted going back to the centre and bringing a bottle of wine with us. It was a balmy night, and the stars were out, a rarity in this smog-draped city. He was game, if a little nervous.
‘Roger would go mad,’ he laughed, ‘but I guess there’s no harm done.’ Not much of a rule breaker, my cousin, despite his much-vaunted radical beliefs. I guess that’s what fourteen years of private education does well. Parents don’t cough up close to £250k in the hope that their child wilfully breaks the unspoken rules of British society.
Security at the marsh centre was … nothing. There was no security. No CCTV (what would you steal? Some minnows?), no barbed wire. Andrew just used his key and we were in. We went down to the main pond and sat on a small section of decking Roger had installed so that he could observe the frogs more easily. I cracked open the wine and sipped from the bottle. As we passed it between us, I broached the subject that had been turning over in my head.
‘Can I try the frog drug, Andrew? You’ve talked about it so much, and it sounds like an adventure I’d kick myself to miss.’ There was a silence, and then I heard him breathe in and then breathe out in quick succession.
‘I don’t think so, Lara. I’m no expert yet, and I’m still trying to perfect the dosage. Last week I took too much and passed out cold for fifteen minutes. It’s so imprecise – I don’t want to use you as a guinea pig.’
I nodded, and made reassuring noises. ‘I totally understand. I don’t want to put pressure on you in any way. I just thought maybe it might help with my panic attacks in some small way …’ I trailed off, hoping to capitalise on his English built-in awkwardness. He sighed again.
‘I didn’t know you get panic attacks. I do too, ever since I was a little kid. I used to tell my mother I couldn’t breathe. But I couldn’t explain it properly. They came back with a vengeance recently.’ He looked at me with understanding and rubbed my thumb clumsily.
‘What happened?’ I asked, looking at him with a suitable amount of concern. Men like to be stared at intensely, I’ve found. It shows them you’re really absorbed in what they’re saying.
‘My grandparents were in an accident …’ He looked down and dropped my hand. I didn’t push it, instead taking the wine again and dipping my fingers into the pond.
‘Hey, how deep is this water? Roger always acts as though the Loch Ness Monster could be hiding in here.’
He laughed, and pushed his hair away from his face, making the hideous shell earring tinkle. The tension dissipated. ‘This place is his life. He just likes to imagine that everything here is bigger and bolder than it perhaps is. The ponds are all pretty shallow, though this one I’ve waded through and been caught out by how deep it is in the middle – probably up to your waist. And you don’t want to let Roger catch you – consider the frogs, Lara,’ he said in a faux outraged tone. We finished the bottle and I said I’d better call a cab. Andrew helped me up – I was drunker than I’d thought – and we stumbled back to the front gate, giggling and shushing each other. I offered to drop him home, but he said he wanted the air and I poured myself into a Toyota Prius, driven by a man listening to a strange medley of acoustic show tunes. A few minutes before we pulled up outside my flat, I heard my phone beep in my pocket. Clumsily, I unlocked the screen and peered down.
OK, let’s do it. Next Saturday, after work. You bring the wine – I think rosé would go nicely. But it’s TOP SECRET. Nobody knows that I do this.
Despite the terrible interpretation of ‘All that Jazz’ being played as we arrived at our destination, I managed a smile. Gotcha.
* * *
The following week is hard. I find it difficult to sleep, to work, to do much of anything except think about what is going to happen come Saturday. I remember a moment, aged 17, when Jimmy and I had been invited to a kid at school’s birthday party at a nightclub in Finsbury Park. Oh, the glamour! We’d spent weeks organising fake IDs, and consulting each other on what we’d be wearing. We’d come up with an eloquent lie to tell Sophie, and practised the details so that we wouldn’t get caught out in the run-up like so many idiotic teenagers do. This was all on me by the way, Jim would’ve been sprung in an instant. Terrible lying face. By the Monday before, we were so hopped up with anticipation that I couldn’t sleep. My stom
ach would flip and adrenaline would seep into my limbs, and I’d toss and turn worrying about whether or not our plan would work – if we’d get to the club and have the night we’d envisaged. It was miserable. We made it, and everything went like clockwork in the end, but the party was a huge letdown and we got stuck waiting for the bus at 1 a.m. in an icy downpour, Jimmy trying not to be sick, me trying not to go near him in case he was. All that worry and anticipation for not very much. This feeling is similar, except the stakes are much higher and I refuse to take night buses anymore.
Prep for Saturday is less about what dress to wear, and more about making sure the wine I buy is in a screw-top bottle and that I have some discreet gloves. Both of which I procure by Monday. Then I endure five days of jittery feet, racing thoughts and an image of a smiling Andrew inserting itself into my brain at inopportune moments. Honestly, I don’t remember Patrick Bateman ever having fleeting moments of guilt or a gnawing feeling of moral transgression. It’s much harder to carry out this plan with a truly blithe spirit than I thought it would be.
Nevertheless, Saturday comes, and instead of taking the train to the centre as I normally do, I walk the entire way, hoping to calm my nerves with the rhythm of my feet. It works fairly well actually, and I arrive with a smile, able to start work on painting the accessible toilet door as Roger had directed. Andrew arrives late, and for a stressful thirty minutes, I worry that he isn’t going to show. But then there he is, hair tied up with a strip of old T-shirt, and wearing a pair of patchwork shorts which look suspiciously like they’re made of old flannels. His father would have an account at a tailor on Jermyn Street, I think, wincing. What a tragic waste. I wave at him, but don’t stop painting. No need to be too eager, especially if he’s feeling uneasy about later. As the day wears on, it gets hotter. Roger, Lucy, and the old lady who is escaping her decrepit vegetable of a husband sit in the equally decrepit deckchairs just outside the welcome centre and write names of plants on sticks to put in the earth, as if we were at a National Trust property. Thank God for the sun. Rain would surely keep us indoors, and the plan I have in mind would crumble.
I don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard as I did today. Two coats of weatherproof paint and a good scrub down of the internal walls to boot. Nothing like the promise of a murder to boost one’s productivity, it turns out. At 5 p.m., Roger brews tea, and we all down tools and drink it on the deck. It feels nice actually. Like I’m part of something. Something mundane and totally pointless, but that’s not nothing when you’ve never really experienced it. There have been a few moments like that on my journey – times when I’ve wondered if God is telling me to get off this road and embrace a different life. But then I remember that I don’t believe in God and that if he does exist, then he gave me this life to begin with. What would he know?
We head off to the pub at 6 p.m., Roger and Lucy tagging along. Lucy has really come out of herself in the time we’ve been at the centre. Gone is the slightly nervy rabbit vibe. Today she wears a bandana and dungarees, her face brown from the outdoor work. Is Roger a father figure to her? I can’t quite work it out. Given the alternative, I fervently hope so.
The pub is fairly quiet, just a few tables of misfits, and one young man sipping a pint alone with a book, looking faintly out of place. This is not really the kind of establishment you come to to read and ponder. Andrew and I down a bottle of rancid white, while Lucy and Roger sip shandies. Talk is stilted. It’s not a natural group at the best of times, especially not now we’re counting down the clock like lovers desperate to get home and to bed. Eager to push on, I order another bottle and make a show of saying that I need Dutch courage for a date I have later on. Roger is tickled by this, telling me to ‘make the chap pay’ and offering advice on conversation starters. One of which, and I kid you not, is to ask which board game was the best.
‘My favourite is … and it’s controversial … Monopoly!’ Nobody asks why it’s controversial, and his look of disappointment is a reward in itself.
Andrew starts tapping his feet and I begin to worry he’ll back out if we linger here for too long. So I decide to be bold. Draining my glass, I stand up and smile brightly.
‘Well wish me luck. I’ve got to be in Angel at 8.30, let’s hope he’s worth it.’ I sling my bag over my shoulder and clap Andrew on the back with gusto. Roger lifts his glass to me and Lucy waves halfheartedly. I walk out of the pub and turn off the main road and back towards the centre. I decide not to text him, allowing him the chance to take the reins himself. Instead, I sit on the kerb, drinking from a flask of wine I’ve brought with me.
I don’t tend to drink out of a vessel which so obviously screams ‘cry for help’, but I have to carry my own wine separately. The stuff I’ve chosen for Andrew is now heavily fortified with vodka and I need a clear head. Now you see why I need the screw-top bottle, no tampering with trusty corks. One third of the bottle went into my flask, and I topped up the rest with the finest spirit I could find. Not that he’ll have a hangover tomorrow, but it just feels more respectful not to give him the complete paint stripper variety. Last meal and all that. Although apparently America doesn’t give last meals anymore. One guy ordered hundreds of pounds’ worth of food and then refused to eat any of it. The guards were so furious at this display of independence that nobody gets that final treat now. His fellow prisoners will curse his name, but I admire that man’s determination to piss off everyone to the last.
After what I estimate to be half a glass, I see a figure lurching down the road towards me. Some men walk with such an air of dishevelment that they look like they’ve been drawn by a toddler. Andrew is such a man. If there is any doubt, the silhouette of the hair tells me it’s him. The slight swaying suggests he finished that second bottle of wine. I stand up and laugh, waving at him with my free hand.
‘Fuck you for leaving me there,’ he says, punching me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Roger kept on about council recycling schedules and Lucy does nothing to stop him. She seems to almost find it charming?’
He drops his rucksack and fumbles for his keys. Once we’re in, he dumps his bag on the main desk and I go to the kitchen to find some cups. Can’t let him see we will be drinking different things after all. By the time I find them, he’s gone outside and started setting up. With a flicker of amusement, I note that he seems to be wearing vinyl gloves. We’re both taking precautions tonight then.
‘I’m going to give you the liquid from a dropper, OK? Didn’t think you’d actually want to lick a frog.’ He laughs, but I can see he’s still anxious.
‘Don’t worry about that now – line it up and then let’s have another drink. We can take it later,’ I say with a smile, handing him a mug with ‘Frogtastic!’ embossed on the side. He takes it gratefully and swigs. I tense up, wondering if he’ll notice the unusual strength, but he just takes another gulp and sits it down on the deck beside him.
As he decants the frog paste, we talk about his fieldwork and the places he wants to go after Australia. Figuring I have nothing to lose, I ask if his parents are supportive of his ambitions.
‘We don’t speak,’ he says bluntly. ‘Haven’t done for a few years now. It’s for the best. My family is toxic.’ Ain’t that the truth, I think and rub his arm.
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, nothing. Everything. I was just born to the wrong people. I used to joke that I’d been swapped at birth and that my parents’ real son was driving down some beach in a Bentley. They’re not bad people … well, Mum’s not. She’s lovely actually. But the expectations they had for me all centred around money and my uncle’s business and it was just terrible and vicious. I kept in touch for a while after I’d told them I wouldn’t be working for the family, but it got too hard. They’d push it, telling me I was making a stupid decision and that I was behaving like a spoilt child.’ He swigs more wine. Everyone should drink wine from a mug. Really makes you overdo it.
Andrew opens up to me as he relaxes. As I top up his vodka-infused wine,
he explains how his father was consumed by jealousy of his older brother, how his mother was emotionally neglected and his sister had died at nine months old, making him always feel as though he had to live for both of them. I play the silent yet supportive friend, while inwardly thanking the universe that I only have to deal with the one cousin. By now, I’ve switched to drinking water, but Andrew is so drunk he’d never notice. He’s too far into confessional mode, thinking that he can trust me with his deepest and most complex thoughts. Therapists earn every penny. I don’t want to rush him, but the family talk isn’t detailed enough to help me much and any pointed questions I ask are being met with slurred and vague replies. Time for the frog slime, before he is too drunk to function and I have to wait another week. I really can’t face another pub evening with Roger.
Thankfully, the private school politeness that’s been pummelled into him doesn’t seem to fade with alcohol, and when I remind Andrew of the original plan, he’s all hands on deck. The pre-prepared droppers are brought out, and Andrew explains that he will have to make a small burn on my skin in order to allow the serum to enter the body more easily.
‘Where do you want to be marked?’ he asks. ‘Most people choose somewhere easily covered.’ I settle on the foot, since I don’t want to have to remember to cover up or explain away a mark on my body. I pull off my trainers and roll up my socks, putting them into my shoes. I scan the deck, making sure none of my things are lying around. I won’t have a lot of time to linger after we finish. After he’s finished. The rosé bottle is empty, and I place it near my bag, stuffing the mug into a side pocket to take back to the kitchen.
‘You have to do it with me, Andrew,’ I remind him. ‘I’m too much of a wuss to go it alone. Do it at the same time. We’ll jump together.’ He waggles his finger in my face and smiles, pushing a lone dreadlock behind his ear.