phoning from his plush rosebush-smelling office in London, all squeaky and cheerful and you can tell by the tone of his voice he’s wearing a bright pink shirt. ‘No, er, don’t worry,’ Bobby speaks, feeling a bit confused and detached like he’s walked into somebody else’s dream. ‘Lovely,’ Lewis chirps. ‘You see, I was just ringing about those paintings you sent me recently … now, don’t get me wrong – they’re interesting but, I don’t know, it just seems you might’ve lost your touch somewhat. I mean, we all love looking at girls with their legs open, but where’s the soul? What’s happened to all the stories? You should be telling stories, Bobby, not all this wanking around, mate …’ Bobby nods along passively with Bent Lewis’s lah-dee-dah voice, then suddenly he starts feeling all sick again and he doesn’t want to listen and he slams the phone off the skully carpet. The skulls disappear for a second, then return again with new recruits. ‘Fuck off,’ he snaps at the empty room. He thinks Bent Lewis is just trying to get back at him, for not shagging him in the Colon. He stares utterly depressed at the upholstery and the furniture. Sniffing, Bobby the Artist shuffles again in his trainers. For some reason his feet feel far too big and uncomfy for his shoes. Getting jittery, he tries wiggling and wriggling his toes, slamming them up and down on the ground, cursing them, untying and retying the laces. No good, though. Wincing, Bobby gets up again to make himself a glass of water (a queer, desperate attempt to flush out all the toxins), but as he walks he feels his feet gradually turn to skeletons then all the bones crack and crumble to dust in his size 10 Trim-Trabbs. He screams the first letter of the alphabet, kicking off the nasty trainers, tears forming in the sides of his mouth. He shakes his feet frantically, then jabbers off to the bedroom to sink his head into a pillow. He drops himself flat onto the bronze bedcovers, but he’s far too wired and petrified to sleep. ‘You’re going insane,’ the left-hand compartment of his brain teases him. ‘You’re never coming out of this trip, unfortunately,’ the right-hand compartment goads, ‘if it is a trip, that is!’ Hiding in the bedroom, Bobby hears Georgie come in from work but he’s too frightened to talk to anyone human so he ignores her and pretends she doesn’t exist. Georgie sees the squashed Sarah Lee gateau on the living room floor, shouts ‘Hello’ to Bobby, but she doesn’t get any reply and she’s not sure whether to eat the cake or not. She knows Bobby’s home (his shoes are over there in the kitchen), and she wonders why he’s ignoring her. She feels like having a big cry on the sofa but she restrains herself, instead just sitting there in silence for a while in the grey miserable lounge. Back in the bedroom, all colourless and treacherous, Bobby the Artist watches with horror as coats hung on hooks begin to morph into bleeding animal carcasses, but before the visions get too intense his mind says stop stop stop and he slams on the brain-brakes and his heart starts panting, and the visions go away. It’s a constant struggle to keep his brain from taking the piss out of him. He’s not sure what’s happening to him. Bobby gets up to check if his pupils are dilated, but it seems someone’s replaced the mirror with a portrait of Dracula. Dracula screams, then leaps back onto the bed. Aaaargh! Bobby trembles on the stone mattress, papping himself, and yet there’s also a strange admiration for his brain conjuring up such horrific scenes. By heck, the power of the mind! But the more Bobby keeps telling himself it’s just mind over matter, the more the room keeps tormenting him. Stubs in the ashtray turn into filthy bugs and maggots. Every single object in the room seems sinister – even Georgie’s flowery knickers, and the picture of the two bunnies above the chest of drawers. Trembling, Bobby the Artist sinks his head back into the pillows. He tries to lie still for a bit – and for a few seconds it’s alright – until, all of a sudden, footsteps start approaching outside the bedroom door. The steps are quite heavy, like they’re carrying the weight of some sort of ogre or troll or the big brown mammoth thing out of Labyrinth. Bobby the Artist pulls the bronze covers up to his eyelids. The footsteps are getting closer and closer, and you can hear the beastie grunting as it approaches Bobby’s boudoir. It’s like there’s some bloodthirsty demon out there. Probably with awful decaying teeth to gnaw on him, and horns spurting out semen and AIDS-infected blood, and claws caked in poo to scrape into him, and horrid breath, and eyes seeping smelly pus, and a belly full of young artists. The bedroom door begins to open. Bobby yelps, scrabbling around on the mattress in total desperation, but it turns out the monster’s only Georgie, and she looks at him with diagonal eyebrows as he lies squealing on the bed. She wonders what his problem is. She asks him if he wants pasta sauce for tea. ‘Soz soz soz, I can’t talk to you,’ Bobby the Artist snaps, shuddering in his sweaty argyle gown. He knows in his head it’s rude to snap, but he’s feeling so twisted the last thing he’s capable of is a pleasant conversation with someone. He buries his head in the duvet again. Georgie’s face drops, then she turns and scuttles out of the bedroom, mortified. Bobby just stays quiet, glad to be alone again. He can’t speak at all. Fucking monsters. He has a little sigh to himself, hoping to God it’s all over. He tries to lie still for a bit – and for a few seconds it’s alright – until, all of a sudden, footsteps start approaching outside the bedroom door. The steps are quite heavy, like they’re carrying the weight of some sort of ogre or troll or the big brown mammoth thing out of Labyrinth. Bobby the Artist pulls the bronze covers up to his eyelids again. The footsteps are getting closer and closer, and you can hear the beastie grunting as it approaches Bobby’s bedroom. It’s like there’s some bloodthirsty demon out there. Probably with slimy green tentacles to strangle him, and snakes for hair spitting out venom and vomit, and eyes falling out on dangly stalks, and horrid BO, and tongue dripping smelly period blood, and a belly full of young artists. The tower block begins to shake. Bobby yelps, scrabbling around on the mattress in total desperation, but it turns out the monster’s only Alan Blunt the Cunt going down the corridor to work his shift at ICI. Alan’s been on the piss all afternoon, and he’d definitely own up to feeling a bit beastly this evening. He staggers insect-like round the block, losing his way, gurgling, trying to find the right stairs to ground floor. It’s funny how, after a crate of Newcastle Brown, you can forget the most basic, familiar things. He burps. Fifteen minutes later he’s out on windswept Cargo Fleet Lane, getting later and later, and he slumps over to Premier like wobbly raspberry jelly. It’s no fun driving the big tanker without a few nibbles or a copy of the Sun – he hopes there’s some really disgusting stories in there today. Stumbling out of the newsagent, Alan has a shifty glance at Keeley on Page 3 then ambles back towards Peach House and unlocks his battered Ford Escort. He calls his car Bryan. Bryan’s been really faithful to Alan Blunt over the years, despite grudgingly driving him places when he’s had too much to drink. Bryan often has flashbacks about all those scratches and dents in his bodywork, and his eyesight still hasn’t recovered from that time Alan smashed into the back of a Punto on Ormesby roundabout and Bryan’s headlight got caved in. But the two of them are like brothers, and on the odd occasion when Alan’s feeling particularly lonely he has been known to talk to Bryan on their trips out together. ‘Hello, Bryan,’ Alan slathers, splattering spit down his chin. He gets in the front seat, whacks the engine on, then sits for a bit while the car warms up, finally spinning it off the tarmac and onto busy Cargo Fleet. Alan’s a fairly competent driver even when he’s drunk – after all, driving the HGV as an occupation makes the Ford Escort seem really nifty; a bit like playing keepy-uppies with a ping-pong ball before moving on to a size 6 Mitre. But having said that, it’s been a while since Alan’s been this drunk for work and, as he hurtles unknowingly into the charging two-lane traffic of Longlands Road, Alan realises it’s going to be a bit of a mission getting to work this eve. And God knows what it’ll be like driving the container! Alan does an accidental wheel-spin coming onto the trunk road. He knows he’s far too mortalled to be transporting gas, but he knows how lonely it gets at home and he’d be lost without anything to do on the nights. Usually, when he’s been out on the lash,
Alan just downs a couple ProPlus with a couple coffees and he’s sound, and he makes a mental note to visit the ICI canteen as soon as he gets to the plant. In any case, the job today is just taking the empty cab and chassis back to Hull to get reloaded and reserviced, so it’s not as if he’s driving with loads of dangerous chemicals on his back. Alan concedes, burping and spluttering, that he’ll be fine and dandy. Blinking heavily, Alan misses a few chances to join the roundabout at Grangetown, gazing lazily at the smoking towers and the kids playing football on the Wilf Mannion recky below. He wonders how Tiny Tina’s getting on this evening in her little gingham dress; he can’t wait to kidnap her. Perhaps she’d like to drive with him in the tankers. ‘Beep beep beep!’ the cars behind sing out, and Bryan shudders into life and jumps hastily into the revolving traffic on the roundabout. There’s a near-miss between Bryan and this yellow Seicento, then the two of them slip off down the A1085 into the metal-clunking, fire-spunking fortress called ICI. It’s a strange old place. The trees they put up to hide the cubey eyesores and big flare-stack stiffies have all withered to grey twiglets from the pollution. Ravens swoop overhead, ready to peck your eyes out. And all the men are fluorescent. Aah, it’s like a second home though. Foot jittering on the accelerator, Alan Blunt the Cunt pulls into the crowded car park, foaming slightly at the mouth. Still pissed up, Alan gets out of the Escort, forgets to lock up then remembers, then tries his best to stroll soberly into the building with the canteen in it. He wipes a bit of condensation off his thick brown gegs, slipping slightly on the lino and laughing. The room smells of polystyrene cups. Alan Blunt hobbles over to the counter, smiles a load of furry teeth at Gloria the ex-dinnerlady, then orders a strong coffee three sugars please. He tries not to keel over, keeping one hand on the tray rack. He considers scranning one of the sandwiches but he’s not sure his stomach could take it; even the sight of the swirling whirlpool coffee makes him gag slightly. He feels himself staring at Gloria all mole-eyed. Lifting the coffee up round the rim, he pours in the sugars, stir stir stir, pays Gloria, then staggers over to the empty school tables and sits down. The canteen has that cold morbid feel of a hospital waiting room, and he can see his breath. Banging his bum down on a foam seat, Alan feels his head bob in drunken knackeredness towards the table, absolutely fucked, then he takes a sip of coffee all hot and spicy into his belly. He looks at his watch, which says 5.11pm – only nineteen minutes until drive-time. He really cannot be bothered. He glances up at the few others in the canteen – there’s Henderson the lab technician going bald years before his time, there’s Miss Adams the Enron receptionist still wearing eighties power suits (today’s shade is violet), there’s Barnes the plastic analyser with the daft lopsided face after his stroke last summer, and there’s Alan Blunt the Cunt’s boss David H. Stephenson. ‘Are you alright there, Alan?’ Stephenson asks, unfortunately clocking him over the spinning cake machine. Alan looks up at him from his steamy coffee, or rather he looks a bit past him then a bit before him then Bang! right into Stephenson’s beady eyes. ‘Er, ey up,’ Alan mumbles, trying to act natural and all that. The paranoia of being caught pissed on the job just makes it worse though, makes Alan’s head clogged with lots of unnecessary thoughts and cover-ups, and he blows it completely by spurting out, ‘What’s your problem?’ Stephenson glares at him. He’s heard rumours of Alan getting pissed before work and heard the words ‘alcoholic’ and ‘nutcase’ batted about the plant before, and he can see Alan’s eyeballs wobbling all over the place and mouth all sloppy and slurring like he’s got a slippery haddock for a tongue, and breath worse than an old man’s undercrackers. ‘You’re not driving the tanker tonight, are you?’ Stephenson asks, with that harsh tone of a headteacher. David H. Stephenson is much higher up the ladder than Alan, co-ordinating the fleet of gas tankers on their various excursions up and down the country and abroad, and he has a habit of feeling incredibly superior to those underneath him, especially the no-hopers like Alan. Alan Blunt the Cunt swallows down more manky coffee, then squints his eyes and protests, ‘Aye, but there’s no gas on it tonight. Just the cab and that, mate. It’s, er, it’s alright mate.’ Stephenson rolls up his M&S sleeves, disgusted that anyone as trolleyed as Alan could even consider putting his life – and the lives of others, such as pregnant single mothers and children – at risk driving a fucking huge Leyland cab and chassis down public streets in that state. Stephenson has no points on his licence, and he passed his driving test years and years ago with only one minor. Flicking back his Brylcreemy barnet, Stephenson snarls at Alan, ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’ Alan shrugs, still trying to convince himself he’s alright but it’s hard work, and he repeats, ‘Naw naw, it’s only the … there’s no gas tonight. I’m not gonna blow anyone up …’ Stephenson snorts, disgusted. He screws his face up, as if he’s just seen a tramp shit on his freshly pruned, plumed garden. As if it makes any difference, Alan sits up a bit straighter and reels off in a drippy monotone, ‘It’s sound, mate. I know the roads like the, er, back of my hand. I could get to Hull with my fucking eyes shut. Not that I’m going to, like, but …’ Since beginning the tanker job five years back, the veins and wires in Alan’s brain have slowly formed a British road map but, even so, he’s still miles and miles over the drink-drive limit and the insanity limit. ‘You’re not going anywhere, sonny,’ Stephenson states, using that same tone of voice his two boys face when coming home late from badminton. ‘You’re a disgrace, Alan,’ he continues, ‘and don’t think I won’t bring this up with Roberts,’ (his boss) ‘or Charvelstone’ (his boss’s boss). Gurgling slightly, Alan coughs up a bit of waxy phlegm. In his spinning teacup head, Alan doesn’t really give a fuck what Stephenson says, but when David H. orders him to down the coffee and ‘get the hell off the premises’ he does feel a pang of stupidity and regret. ‘Well, should I come back tomorrow?’ Alan Blunt yells back at Stephenson as he plods back out of the canteen. ‘Don’t count on it,’ Stephenson spits, catching the eyes of his peers, feeling like God. Recently, at the annual chemicals conference in Coventry, he was proud to note his wife was the most beautiful of all the ICI wives. ‘I’ll speak to Roberts,’ Stephenson adds, as Alan disappears out the door, ‘and I’ll let you know. But don’t hold your breath.’ Sort of downcast, Alan Blunt the Cunt waddles back to his Ford Escort, pleased he parked Bryan out of sight of the cafeteria so shitty Stephenson can’t see him drive off. He jumps into the M-reg, then scuttles hastily out of the Ind. Est. After that coffee he feels a bit sick in the guts, but also a bit livelier and more perceptive on the roads, and he knows he could’ve driven the cab down to Hull no bother. Speeding down the trunk road, skidding whoosh whoosh over all the roundabouts, Alan figures Stephenson won’t say anything – he’s all mouth and no chinos, that sort of wanker. It’s not as if Alan was caught drinking behind the wheel; he was only caught drinking coffee in the canteen. Shock! Horror! Alan sighs. He gets back to Peach House and puts another brew on and sticks Emmerdale on. He gets a phone call around 7.23pm from David H. Stephenson telling him he’s getting the sack and that his HGV and dangerous substances licence could be under threat and never to come back to the power plant ever again, and Alan Blunt sits down on the knackered sofa and changes the channels a few times. He sees a cloud out of the window. The wind seems to be blowing quite fiercely. After a couple sips of tea, Alan leaves his cup on the side then goes downstairs for a litre bottle of Bell’s, remembering first to wrap himself up. He tucks his red SACRE BLEU FRANCK QUEDRUE scarf into his deerhide jacket, then walks sadly across the road, not bothering really to look both ways but there’s nothing coming anyway. He buys the whisky, staring dumbly at the two Pakistani boys serving. He tumbles back up the stairs of Peach House. He swallows the whole bottle of Bell’s, blacks out on the sunken settee, then goes back down to the shop in the crystally misty morning for another one. In the same clothes as last night, Alan looks like the gruesome ghost of a football manager, and the boys at the shop make jokes to each other in a foreign language and Alan consider
s bashing them over the head with the bottle but the booze is too precious to lose. He doesn’t bother saying thank you or goodbye to them. Back on the autumnal estate, Alan gazes up at the three towers shivering like fat icepops, then glances at his watch under the deerhide sleeve. It’s 10.15am – the kids at Corpus Christi will be on morning break – and, huddling the bottle of Bell’s in his mitts, Alan smiles and breathes circles of steam and marches sharply towards the school gates. Oh Tiny Tina, there you are skipping around in a great oversized parka! And bare legs! How naughty! Tiny Tina, pulling her own pigtails as she darts amongst the boys and girls, smiles jubilantly to be out in the fresh air. Her class have just been learning about the Egyptians, and she prances around dreaming of Pharaohs and pyramids. ‘I’m Cleopatra I’m Cleopatra!’ Little Tracy yelps, over by the hop-scotch. ‘No I’m Cleopatra I’m Cleopatra!’ her friend Little Nicole screams, going down the slide. Tomorrow they’ll be Florence Nightingales or Joans of Arc. Skipping past, Tiny Tina giggles to herself, skidding on the slippy tarmac. She thinks the Egyptians are great. Her teacher Carol can be quite disgusting though, telling the kids how the mummies get their brains scooped out of their noses with a long hook. Tina hopes her own mummy won’t get her brains scooped out. Sniffling, Tiny Tina keeps dashing round the playground, trying her best not to think about the gory bits. She runs to the opposite side of the playground, following the painted yellow lines of the netball court. She plays trains for a bit, but she’s the only carriage. Over by the frosty gate, she spots Mr Spooks staring at her, but she carries on charging round the playground regardless. Mr Spooks is her name for the scary old man who stands at the fence every other day, staring at the kiddies. He’s frightening! Mr Spooks coughs, then takes a swig from a bright gold bottle. Zipping up mummy’s coat, Tiny Tina jumps around on the spot getting chilly, wondering if the boys over by the compost heap will let her join in their cops and robbers game. Just as she’s about to sprint off over there, Mr Spooks coughs again and, for the first time ever, shouts something at her. ‘Come here, darling!’ Alan Blunt the Cunt spurts, clutching the Bell’s and one bar of the sticky, frosty fence. His face is full of remorse and booze and bogies. ‘Aaargh!’ Tiny Tina yelps, almost bursting into tears to hear such a horrible voice. She’s worried he wants to hook her brains out. ‘Aaargh!’ she screams again, rushing over to her teacher Carol, who stands every breaktime by the cloakroom door making sure none of the kids get in. Tiny Tina throws her little plasticine arms round Corpus Christi Carol’s legs, not yet crying but it’s brewing inside her like a storm big enough to capsize several boats. ‘What is it what is it?’ Carol asks, stroking Tina’s piggytails, then all of a sudden she sees Alan standing over by the gates in his musty deerhide jacket and she storms over to confront him. Alan has been a nuisance to Corpus Christi for a good seven months – the amount of time Tina has been at the school, incidentally. A day seldom goes by when he’s not standing there at the gates ogling the schoolgirls, but whenever she tries to have eye contact with him Alan just wanders off sadly without causing a fuss. Today though, Alan’s hammered, and he stares viciously at the lanky woman striding across the yard. Corpus Christi Carol spits through the bars, ‘What do you want?’ Alan, slightly taken aback, points at Tiny Tina (who instantly jumps behind Carol like she’s been zapped by lightning) then slurs, ‘Look, just let me talk to her. L-let me play with her.’ Disgusted, Corpus Christi Carol screws all her wrinkles up then, spotting the Bell’s bottle vibrating in Alan’s fist, snarls, ‘Look, I think you’d better leave.’ Sobs welling up in Tina’s and Mr Spooks’s eyes, Alan brings his face closer to the bars of the primary school and calls to the little girl, ‘Come here! Come here! Come here!’ Bursting into full-blown tears, Tiny Tina bursts off across the playground and hides herself safely in the girls’ toilets. She trembles on the shut seat, crying for her mummy. Back in the yard, absolutely distraught, Alan takes a long desperate slug of whisky. Then he has a splutter, still clutching the metal fence. ‘Look, if you don’t leave, I’m calling the police!’ Corpus Christi Carol yells. Alan Blunt’s head drops, and he mumbles to himself, ‘I am the fucking police.’ But his police days are long gone of course, and he nods gravely at Carol then turns and staggers off across the road. There’s still not enough cars on Cargo Fleet Lane to run him over. The walk back to Peach House seems to take forever. Every four or five steps, Alan stops to drink from the Bell’s. He hears the primary school bell go off in the distance. So much for Tina’s Big Kidnap. A tear drops out of his eye, then tears start dropping out of the sky as well, and Alan quickens his pace before the deerhide jacket gets absolutely drenched. What a terrible day. He ducks into Ladbrokes before heading up the tower, which is like a wee garden shed glued to the side of the Brambles Farm Hotel. Slumping on the desk, he puts a fiver E/W on all the horses with the saddest names at Cheltenham and Musselburgh, and none of them wins him any money. Sniffing, Alan slurps more drink then makes the gloomy ascent back up Peach House. In the safety of the tower block, Alan shakes off a few drips and drops, sparking up his last Regal. He takes alternate sucks on the fag and the glass bottle, feeling really fucked again and not totally sure what’s going on. All the bad news of a shitty grey day seems like a dull unspecific kick to the head. Sniffing and snortling, Alan Blunt the Cunt unlocks the door to his flat. He’s dismayed to find Johnnie and Ellen pounding the Cream Anthems Vol. 6 at full volume through his bedroom wall. They’ve just come home from some twenty-four-hour bender round town, but that’s no fucking excuse. Alan has a good long stare out of his bedroom window, the tiny toy-town houses spinning round down below and the primary school only just out of view. He slams the curtains shut. The clocks went back the other day; now even the afternoons feel really dark and miserable. He wonders if he’s getting the SAD disorder. Finishing the fag, Alan sits down on his unmade beige bed, immersing himself in booze and moody spiralling thoughts, until suddenly he’s disturbed by his fat mobile phone going off in the deerhide jacket. ‘Who the fuck could that be?’ he asks himself. Corpus Christi Carol phoning to apologise? David H. Stephenson offering him his job back? Tiny Tina? Alan lifts himself from the bed and lifts the heavy walkie-talkie to his ear. ‘Yeah?’ he says. Surprise surprise, it’s more bad news. Alan Blunt crumples in a heap again on the sweaty bed. It’s the Loan Company, demanding two months’ missed payments, and reminding him politely that he may face legal action or bailiffs should he fail to pay up. The persuasive cunt on the other end gets Alan to promise he’ll ‘definitely have the cash by Thursday’, then he wishes Alan good day and hangs up. All red-faced and panicky, Alan slams the phone down, then turns it off at the OFF button. He puts it down the toilet and has a shit on top of it. Two minutes later, two floors down, Bobby the Artist sees a phone-shaped turd fly past the window. It refused to flush. Blinking curly eyelashes, Bobby can’t tell if he’s hallucinating or not. He’s defrosting a sheet of acid in the kitchen, trying to weigh up the pros and cons of swallowing it. The Scary Incident with the Cannabis put the fear of God in him, but without drugs it’s been a miserable boring day, and the three cans of Kronenbourg he devoured earlier have only worsened his mood. Johnnie dropped off another load of Class As last night, and he hopes to God he doesn’t see evil things again. He figures Pamela must’ve gotten a bad batch of resin and it’s not really his mind falling apart, and his drug days aren’t over and he won’t die from psychological devastation. Plus, it’s lovely and orange and autumny today and Bobby wants to go down the park to attempt some sketches and kick-start his career as an artist again, and he couldn’t possibly do it sober. Packing up a few HB and 2B pencils and putty rubber and sharpener, Bobby reassures himself again and again he’ll be okay, then he rips off five of the strawberry blotters and casually pokes them down the chute with the last two sips of warm Kronenbourg. He plods through to the living room. This morning Bobby was pleased to find the skulls had disappeared from the carpet; however, they now seem to have been replaced by loads of swastikas on the wallpaper. Bobby
shakes his head, pulling on a second argyle sweater, then he scampers down the staircase two or three steps at a time. Maybe it’s just the living room that’s going mental, not him. Bobby the Artist steps out onto the leafy car park, drawing pad clutched firmly under his turquoise sleeve. The sun’s in and out of clouds as he wanders through the estate; it’s chilly willy. He coughs into the sky. It’s funny how different you feel walking on your own than with a group of friends – you become so aware and paranoid about how you look, how many steps to take before mounting that kerb there, and Bobby finds himself getting in people’s way a lot more. He’s like a sleepwalker. Gazing straight ahead, Bobby successfully dodges a banana skin on the edge of Cargo Fleet Lane, and he hopes no one put it there on purpose to trip him up. He sighs into his chest, looking forward to getting to the safety of the park. Picking up the pace down Cranmore Road, Bobby whistles ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’, waiting for the acid to kick in. Every so often he thinks the trees might be getting a bit greener, or the sky might be getting a bit faster, but it’s all just in his head. Wandering onwards, he wishes he’d brought some gloves – his fingers are like frozen chips. He shoves his mitts in his corduroy pockets then carries on down the street, his mind drifting slightly like a kite getting caught on the breeze. Down past the bungalows at Addington Drive, Bobby the Artist feels his pupils gently dilate and, lo and behold, the pavements start to get swirly and he smiles into the collar of his top. So far so good. The sun comes out at 3.33pm and suddenly the estate’s all beautiful and Bobby starts to skip between the lovely letter-boxes and wheelie bins and drain covers. He admires the black and white spots of that bright Dalmatian over there. It doesn’t even seem that cold any more – weather just seems a figment of imagination; if Bobby wants to be warm, he’s warm. Look! The beck’s all full of diamonds and crystals! Grinning away, Bobby enjoys just derive-ing about the estate, everything seeming new and exciting – especially the red of that red pool of blood up Chertsey Avenue! He’s in a brilliant mood. Bobby’s so pleased he’s not a paranoid wreck, and he continues pacing along Cranmore getting deeper and deeper into the trip. At 4.44pm it all goes horribly wrong. The sun creeps behind a cumulonimbus, and suddenly the street seems a bit more sinister and daunting, and Bobby’s heart stammers at the darkness closing in. He feels cold again. He shivers in his two jumpers, and then he makes a fatal mistake – he wonders what it’d be like if he started getting paranoid again. The thought of it makes his ribcage clatter, and he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a car windscreen and he thinks he sees Dracula again. ‘Shit,’ Dracula mumbles, in the darkened glass. Trembling, Bobby nearly falls off the kerb, wishing he was back in the flat. He has a bit of an internal monologue with himself, repeating, ‘It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright,’ but he knows it’s not going to be alright. Nevertheless, he reckons things might be better in the park, and he tries to walk very cool and nonchalant down the rest of Cranmore Road. He avoids eye contact with his own reflection in the passing cars. All wobbly, Bobby the Artist keeps a tight grip of his sketchpad and pencils, trying his best to think light, happy thoughts like stroking kittens and playing beach volleyball and picking dandelions and sawing young children’s arms and legs off. Whoops! Spluttering, Bobby the Artist continues down the rock-hard pavement, keeping his eyes fixed on that patch of green field up ahead but it seems fucking miles away now. He cringes. There seem to be people in the bushes laughing at him. Is Halloween a bit earlier this year, or is it just the acid? The more Bobby tells himself to relax and remember it’s just a drug it’s just a drug it’s just a drug, the worse the whole ordeal gets, as if his brain’s got a huge revolting grin and it’s sniggering at him. It’s like throwing a pack of cards in the air and all of them landing face-up jokers. Carrying on down the street, Bobby watches wide-eyed as trees start to take on the appearance of witches’ claws, erupting from people’s front gardens. Birds on rooftops that started out as pigeons fly off as black bloodthirsty crows and ravens, circling overhead and chanting ‘Bobby Bobby Bobby’. This is completely uncharted territory for him – previously, the worst trips Bobby ever had were when he thought people were talking about him behind his back, or those few occasions the liberty caps didn’t work. Head down, Bobby tries to jog the rest of the way to the park, but his feet keep turning to brittle skeletons again and the concrete keeps getting harder and harder. ‘Why me? Why me?’ he whines to himself. After one last surge of energy – and a hop-skip-and-a-jump over some mangled entrails – Bobby the Artist finally reaches the gate of Pallister Park. The sun’s still sitting firmly behind closed cloudy curtains, but things feel a bit safer being in an open area with lots of people milling about. There’s a few lads playing football over by the muddy goalposts, and Bobby sits for a bit watching the ball plop this way and that. The bench he’s sitting on feels like a giant ice cube. Squinting, Bobby the Artist flips open the sketchbook on his lap, then sharpens his pencils one by one onto the blustery grass. He thinks the best tonic is to concentrate on drawing something pretty for a while, rather than thinking all the time about death and executions and mutilated babies and all that. Keeping one eye on the football and one eye on the 220gsm cartridge paper from Jarreds, Bobby the Artist sketches a flurry of legs and Lotto boots and skidmarks and two-footed challenges. It’s a pretty raucous kickabout! Scribbling furiously, Bobby gets engrossed in the action, following the lads’ movements round the page in a muddle, like Mark Tobey or Cy Twombly drawing out team tactics on a chalkboard. He starts to cheer up, the sun winking now and then through the little transparent bits in clouds. He keeps focused on the boys’ charging boots, like a lovely eight-legged horse kicking the hell out of the moon. Bobby nearly dribbles, he’s enjoying himself so much. It’s only when he glances up at the boys’ faces that the pencil freezes in his grip. The lead breaks, and Bobby throws a load of stomach mush into his mouth. As the lads continue kicking, lunging and yelling, Bobby realises with terror they’re a team of hideous gangly gargoyles. The boys’ noses grow massive and hooked with hairs sprouting out, and their teeth are piranhas’, and their hair starts falling out in mouldy clumps, and their ears are all pointed, and their eyes are like the eyes that spy on you behind medieval portraits in haunted castles. Bobby the Artist retches, flinging his sketchbook twenty-four yards down the path. He tries to avert his eyes, but all the other kids and grown-ups in the park are the same disgusting, bug-eyed ghouls. Some lovers over there by the playground are actually feeding off each other, ripping off strips of flesh with maggots and flies pouring out. Petrified, Bobby the Artist swallows his own tongue, then darts out of the park with legs getting all tangled up together. The walk home is horribly unfamiliar. More piranha-toothed hook-noses are staggering about the opposite side of the street in Ellesse sportswear, all of them staring at Bobby and licking their lips. He strides the rest of the way with his head to the ground – at least the tarmac’s not turning into anything spooky. He’s so shaky! Up the stairs of the flat, he hopes to God he doesn’t bump into anyone. There’s only one thing for it now – his head’s so fucked, all he can do is put himself to bed and hope no gremlins jump in with him. He’s still quivering as he slots the key into the slit, and he tries to ignore the bug-eyed goblin on the sofa as he kicks off his shoes and runs to bed. ‘Not even a hello?’ Georgie asks, chewing Chewits sadly on the pink couch. Bobby the Artist throws himself under the covers. Georgie sighs orange flavour. She rubs her glitterball eyes with her Bhs sleeve. She scratches her slightly less brutal bob. The weather’s still quite overcast, and Georgie feels her chin begin to shake in all the sadness and shadows. She’s not sure what to do – Bobby the Artist doesn’t seem to like her any more. She’s worried this might be the end for them. She’s very paranoid herself, and incredibly grouchy after another poop day at Bhs. She thinks he might be cheating on her, but then again Ellen or Pamela or anyone don’t seem to have been over recently. She can usually smell their over-the-top perfumes in the flat or, more obviously, see Bobby’s filthy painti
ngs of them in her bedroom. It’s heartbreaking enough that Bobby’s seen those girls in the nude, never mind whether he’s done anything rude with them or not. It makes her sick to think those dole bitches might know what Bobby’s knob looks, feels or tastes like, flaunting round her flat while she’s out earning a living in sweety hell. She can feel herself getting fatter and fatter, and she doesn’t even like sweets any more. She just comfort eats, gradually turning into a massive cushion. Georgie holds back the tears, holds back the urge to burst into Bobby’s bedroom and scream at him. She feels neglected. It’s never been like Bobby to not talk to her – one thing she loved most in the past was chatting to him for hours about the surrealists or space rock or paranoiac-critical method; ever since he got famous, he hasn’t spoken about any of it at all. She used to love dressing up for him, lying round the living room in sailor suits and netball skirts and ballerina cozzies with Bobby feverishly swiping at a canvas –nowadays, she just comes home and sits in the tight Bhs uniform all night. And it’s getting tighter. Bobby sleeps in his clothes now, so she does too. It’s a sad old life. And horrible to think Bobby seemed so much happier before he went down to London! Georgie feels shitty about all his skinny groupies, but worse than all that is Bobby’s love affair with drugs. She read on the internet this week that you can really lose your sense of reality on psychedelics (she read a great analogy about reality being like a beautiful flowerbed and how every time you do drugs it’s like trampling on the flowers, and the more and more times you do it the less likely those beautiful flowers will ever grow back), and his general attitude is certainly starting to resemble that of a paranoid, detached zombie. She wants the old Bobby back. Sighing, Georgie glances at the scraps of empty canvas and ripped paper strewn around the lounge. He hardly seems to have painted anything decent for months – just boring busty birds, but at least they’ve flown off now. Fucking filth. Shoving one more fizzy Chewit down her throat, Georgie cringes, sitting in a pile of uncashed cheques and mountainous sweets. She used to be creative herself once, back when she first met Bobby at the art college, sculpting pirate ships and double-decker buses out of cardboard boxes from Tesco. She could even be a good painter herself – after all, she paints her own self-portrait every morning; in Max Factor. But she never wanted to become famous though – after all, her dad said artists just have their heads in the clouds and they won’t ever amount to anything, and she wonders if that’s true of Bobby. She sighs. She so dearly wants to help him get better. Reminiscing raspberry-eyed about their daft days at school, Georgie tips out her bags of sweets onto the carpet and makes a little portrait of Bobby, using fried eggs for eyes, Parma Violets for teeth, and a big sour cherry for his nose. She kisses Bobby’s lips, then she can’t help gobbling him up. ‘Mm-mm!’ she yums. She understands a little how people could get addicted to drugs, since she can’t even kick her own bloody candy habit. Bobby’s left a few ecstasy pills knocking about on the carpet, and Georgie’s almost tempted to sample one, just to see what all the fuss is about. She’s aware she won’t be able to cure him without understanding exactly what happens to you on pills, but then again she’s seen how much damage drugs have caused him and she doesn’t want all that pain for herself thank you very much. Instead, she just looks at the pretty patterns on the ecstasy (Mitsubishis, Shreks, Lovehearts), and copies them down with a nail scissor onto a few of her Parma Violets. Concentrating, she carefully engraves the sharp Mitsi logo into the first one, cracking the edge a bit, but you can still tell what it’s meant to be. Blowing off the dust, Georgie admires her handiwork, then swallows the Mitsi Violet with a swig of fizzy pop. For five minutes Georgie pretends to be off her head – waving her arms in the air, faux-gurning, rolling her eyes like pool balls – but after a bit she just feels bloated. For the next couple of hours – instead of guzzling sweeties and feeling sorry for herself – Georgie carves fifty Mitsubishi and Loveheart logos into her Parma Violets, crushes two packets of Trebor XXX mints into six grams of brain-freeze ‘cocaine’, and sticks together twenty-five Looney Tunes sugar-papers (from a box of fairy-cake mix) to make a sheet of blotter acid. She feels good to be occupied in something creative again. Chewing her lips, Georgie gathers up her little array of medicines onto a sheet of plain A4, then tiptoes through to the bedroom, where Bobby’s snoring under a cave of bronze bedcover. His face, peeking out of an air gap, looks so delicate and bewildering, like a fragile puppet-head. Georgie’s desperate to wake him up and show him her Class A candy, but he doesn’t half look peaceful for the first time in ages, and he’d probably get in a grump with her. Lingering there in the dusty light, Georgie wants to just drop the silly sweets and jump into bed with him, but then all of a sudden a really brilliant idea strikes her. Twitching her nose, Georgie creeps across the lumpy carpet, A4 paper aloft like a floppy old dinner tray. She knows exactly where Bobby the Artist keeps all his drugs and drug paraphernalia, and she holds her breath as she slides open his Fourth Drawer Down. Georgie pokes her hand into the sock where the drugs live, digging out a couple of baggys containing fifty-six ecstasy pills, half a gram of speed, and two grams-ish of cocaine. Fingers steady, Georgie replaces the pills with her Mitsi Parma Violets, then she pours the speed and coke into the wastepaper basket and fills up the baggys with crushed Trebor. Feeling quite dastardly but overall the Saint of Peach House, Georgie skips through to the kitchen and swaps Bobby’s acid with cake papers in the freezer. She has an ecstatic shiver, then slams the freezer door shut and flexes her toes on the lino. Georgie chucks the real acid and the fifty-six ecstasy pills out the front-room window, and she imagines the pills each planting an ecstasy tree in the car park gardens. Big pink trees, probably! Before she gets too excited, though, Georgie decides to put something sedate on the stereo (she likes the Crimea) and puts on the kettle, and she refuses to have any sugars in her tea. In between bitter sips from the Power Rangers mug, Georgie smiles to the music and gives the flat a huge spring-clean, even if it’s autumn. She washes and wipes and hoovers up everything related to bad memories (crusty bongs, pillbags, Rizla, etc.), and once she’s finished the flat feels peculiarly empty. She arranges Bobby’s painting materials in a neat pile next to the sofa, folds up his argyle sweaters, then hops into bed with him all shattered and giddy. Undressing, Georgie feels so much happier – she strips naked, stretching, rubbing the restrictive bra marks off her boobies. She yaaaaawwns. Slipping underneath the cover, she touches Bobby’s side but he’s absolutely paralysed, and they both just lie there silent like marble Roman statues. Up close, Georgie sniffs Bobby’s dirty candlewax hair, and she snuggles into him like he’s an unwashed comfort blanket. She doesn’t want anyone – or any drugs – to take her Bobby away. Yawning again, she spoons him and starts dropping off, just as the Artist starts stirring and mumbling loudly, ‘Don’t hurt me.’ Georgie’s eyes ping open with horror. ‘Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me,’ Bobby repeats, slightly writhing around in his sleep. Georgie lets go of him and turns over. She sighs. She wishes she could just click her fingers and everything be alright for him. Squelching her head deep into the pillow, half an hour later Georgie’s fast asleep, dreaming of miniature elephants, and half an hour after that Bobby the Artist wakes up screaming air. He’s been in and out of slumbers all evening. Sweaty and nervous, he glances at the back of Georgie’s head, and worms start wiggling out of her dark bird’s-nest hair. Sitting bolt upright, Bobby wonders what the hell’s happening to him. He’s got so much to give! Shivering, Bobby the Artist says a little prayer, staring up to the heavens, although sadly he doesn’t actually believe in God. He glances nervously round the bedroom. Thankfully that bastard swastika wallpaper seems to have been taken down, and there’s no more Michael Jacksons in the curtains. However, all the furniture seems to have been replaced by the apparatus of a horrible horrible torture chamber. Shuddering, Bobby clutches the covers up round his forehead, big sloppy heart choking him in his throat. He blinks nervously at the Homebase gallows, IKEA stretching-rack and matching stocks, shiny gu
illotine, GAK iron maiden and various ball-gags, whips, rusty chains and cats-o’-nine-tails. Georgie continues sleeping soundly beside him, her breaths becoming the deathly gasps and groans of torture victims, echoing off the horrid machinery. Bobby the Artist knows it’s just his mind turning the bedroom into a Chamber of Horrors, not some evil Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, but he wonders why he’s got such a nasty bastard for a brain. Sniffing, Bobby concentrates on the various torture devices, trying with all his might to turn them back into furniture. He remembers an essay he studied at college, where André Breton says (like Leonardo da Vinci before him) if you stare into a crystal ball or cracks in the wall long enough, soon you’ll start seeing obscure objects and images. On the other hand, Bobby figures if you focus long and hard enough on the illusory objects and images (for example, guillotines and gallows and cats-o’-nine-tails), soon enough they’ll turn back into a crystal ball, or cracks in the wall, or your furniture. So, gritting his teeth, Bobby the Artist battles the torture chamber with mind power for fifteen minutes. By the end of it he’s sweating profusely, but at least he gets his bedroom back to normal. He stares breathlessly at the Homebase clothes rack, IKEA desk and matching chest-of-drawers, Georgie’s shiny dresser, Georgie’s GAK suitcase, and various socks, tights, belts, and plugs and wires. Phew-ee! All exhausted, Bobby bumps his head back against the headboard. To celebrate, he decides to crack open a bottle of Bellabrusco, bought for £1.99 across the road. Holding the weight of one and a half litres in his trembly paws, Bobby coaxes paralysis out of the hefty glass container, getting completely hammered in just under half an hour. He chucks the empty bottle across the carpet, then chucks his head back on the pillow and burps and falls straight back to sleep. Next thing he knows, Bobby’s woken at 8.30am by Georgie getting ready for work in a daze, then again at 11.05am by Johnnie battering on the door. Bobby tumbles out of bed. At first he thinks it’s a déjà vu, and has he slept with Ellen and is Johnnie going to smash him up? Para para para. But Johnnie seems in incredibly high spirits, jiggling around in a new Le Coq Sportif tracksuit, and he says, ‘Now then, Bobby, how’s it going?’ Bobby does a nervous grin. ‘Er, not too bad,’ he replies, still feeling quivery after The Scary Incident with the Acid and all the other scary incidents. He doesn’t feel right at all, and he finds it a bit of an effort speaking to Johnnie when they go to sit in the kitchen. Johnnie helps himself to a handful of Skittles, fidgeting about on the stool, asking his pal, ‘So how’s the art coming on? Any good?’ Bobby stares blankly at a crawling teaspoon on the crumby breakfast bar. ‘Er, not too bad,’ he repeats, then he says, ‘Erm,’ then he says nothing at all. He’s had a few cheques through for various paintings (‘Bobby’s Favourite Trip’ went for two grand, ‘Boozy Bastard Bashes Bird’ went for one and a half), but money just annoys him now and it’s a drag having to log everything in his fucking tax book like Lewis told him to. And as for painting, Bobby hasn’t done anything of value for ages, unless you count the lovely sketch he did the other day of a man with his head chopped off. Shifting his bum, Johnnie can see Bobby’s a bit distant and moody but, instead of reading the signs and leaving him to it, he grins his teeth one by one and announces, ‘I’ve got some good news, by the way.’ Bobby raises a caterpillar. ‘Yeah, well did you hear how I got banged up the other week?’ Johnnie continues. ‘Yeah? Well that’s not the good news like, but it was alright anyway; I had pills and that on me but only five or so. Got off with a caution; daft cunts. But anyway, I’ve decided to pack it in. I’m giving up all this shite; you know, drugs, and stealing and all that. It’s like what you said about being relaxed – I’m never fucking relaxed when I’m out and about causing trouble, you know, always watching my back and that. I’m just gonna get myself a job or something …’ Johnnie’s eyes are bright as golf balls as he speaks, genuinely excited about the prospect. He’s twenty-one years old, after all – stealing phones and dealing drugs and robbing people’s purses just seems ever so babyish now. Crossing his legs, Johnnie breathes a really big sigh of relief – he’s so proud for those words to be finally flying around like the spores of a dreamclock. He’s going straight! Grinning, Johnnie glances at Bobby and carries on, ‘Anyway, since I’ve given up dealing, I’m not gonna be taking drugs any more. But … I’ve been keeping this last gram of ket in my shoebox for a rainy day and well, it’s not raining or owt, but I wondered if you’d be up for one last dabble? To celebrate and that …’ Bobby watches corpse-like as Johnnie scrabbles through his pockets then plops a healthy bag of ketamine on the melamine, then for some reason they both start laughing haw haw haw. In his heart Bobby knows it’s a foolish idea to go shoving more psychedelia up his nostrils, but then again it’s Johnnie’s last day of drugs and he’d be a fool to turn down such a generous offer. Perhaps the Special K won’t send him doolally. The boys adjourn to the living room. The bare walls watch over them gobsmacked as they cut up lines of Kicking K with the credit card Bobby’s been awarded by the Visa company. Four lines later, Bobby the Artist splits the card in two and hurls it in the bin overflowing with acrylic tubes and papers and sweet wrappers. He tries to forget about The Scary Incident with the Acid (even though that entails thinking about it a little bit), putting his feet up on the settee. The ketamine kicks in, numbing his limbs, sticking him to the sides of the sofa. Objects and patterns begin to flutter about the flat. Johnnie, glued to the floor, starts to giggle and run his hands through the carpet, imagining the most beautiful shiny flowers growing from where Bobby saw skulls buried a couple of days ago. He’s catapulted back in time to his back garden in Ormesby, him and his brothers playing in the long unmown grass with toy cars and punctured footballs. Johnnie feels lovely, sitting there in the soppy flower bed, his head all free and happy for the first time in years. Bobby, on the other hand, suddenly begins to panic as the settee starts getting uncomfortable under his skinny frame. Not again! Absolutely paralysed from the sniffy stuff, Bobby can do nothing but lie still as needles begin to erupt from the sofa, ripping and severing the soft pink fabric. Next thing he knows, he’s lying on a bed of nails, all twelve thousand pins stuck deep into his white flesh. With every wriggle, Bobby the Artist feels himself sinking deeper into the nails, until some needles start sticking their heads out of his chest and neck and scrotum and forehead. He screams the word ‘ ’. This is Bobby’s black period. Sweating, Bobby glances at Johnnie while shifting about on the pins, and lo and behold his friend’s gleeful face starts to turn gnomish and hooky-nosed and horrible, with big grey flappy ears and sloppy fangs. He looks away. Drenched in perspiration, Bobby the Artist lubricates the bed of nails, sliding further and further in. During this ordeal, Alan Blunt the Cunt taps on the door three times (he’s in dire straits, sad and desperate to talk to someone), but Bobby thinks it’s the Hangman – or even worse, the Grim Reaper – and doesn’t dare answer it. In any case, his limbs are completely numb; except for the searing needle pain, of course. Hyperventilating, Bobby just hopes he doesn’t forget how to breathe, and he has to keep telling himself in out in out and shake it all about. Johnnie stares at him with blood dribbling out the corners of his gob. Squirming about, Bobby manages to swallow down a bit of bile, then finally musters up a few words: ‘Johnnie … eh, maybe you’d better go …’ Bits of stringy flesh peel off Johnnie’s face. He sticks his big red tongue out. ‘Oh, er, aye sound,’ he mumbles, claws and penises and horns growing out of his eyeballs. Johnnie was quite enjoying himself just then, in the flower bed. He can tell when someone’s having a bad trip, though – his mate Ronson once saw Hell in Sainsbury’s car park, and he would’ve thrown himself onto the busy flyover had Johnnie not been there to look after him. The next day Ronson was fine, and they had a delicious Sunday dinner round his mam’s with all the trimmings. Recalling that Bisto, Johnnie stands up from the daisy patch, licking his lips. He’s in heaven. ‘You alright, mate?’ he asks, grinning his pearly off-whites/piranha gnashers. Bobby just grumbles though, fear and panic and all those other words tumbling about his syst
em. He lets out a sustained, blood-boiling scream, and after a bit Johnnie gets the picture and starts readying himself on the sofa arm, checks his appearance three or four times in the TV set, says goodbye to every single one of the carpet flowers, then leans right over Bobby the Artist and growls, ‘I hope, er, you’re alright … take care, mate … er, take care.’ Bobby just stares at him though, with weeping eyes. Shutting the door behind him softly, Johnnie feels a bit guilty leaving his friend in such a sorry state, but Bobby’s a big boy and surely he knows how to combat a bad trip. It’s just the drugs, it’s just the drugs. Slinking down the staircase with heavy limbs, past 4B’s fuzzy WELCOME mat, Johnnie’s still firmly under the influence himself. With his new breezy state of mind, the world seems so simple and wondrous – hanging around with people having bad trips is pretty bad crack like. He slides down the slimy banister. Shivering, Johnnie catches the 65A into the town centre, and by the time he reaches Doggy the ketamine’s beginning to fade off and he stares out the window at the scenery slowly becoming dull again. Off the bus, Johnnie strides peacefully between the mad chain stores and concrete blocks and gothic castles, head full of blank paper. For the first time in his life he wants to earn an honest crust; it’s hard work as it is running around stealing wallets and selling drugs and avoiding policemen, it might actually be more of a doss having a nine-to-five occupation. There’s always the dole – if they’d have him back – but it’d be depressing hanging out with the same bad characters on the New Deal; opportunist cunts like Bello who got him into twocking mobiles and suchlike. Keeping his head up, Johnnie goes into an off-licence on Borough Road for a pack of ten Royals, and he asks the assistant if they’ve got any jobs going. ‘No, sorry mate,’ the skinhead lad says, ding-a-linging the till. Nodding, Johnnie strolls a bit further down the road, popping into the Crown and then into Isaac’s to see if they need bar staff. He’s never poured a pint before in his life, but he likes the idea of working around pissheads, and he’s also under the false impression that being behind a bar feels the same as being out on the lash. However, the lovely barmaid at the Crown and the fatty gadge at Wetherspoon’s both turn him down, especially with no CV and no experience to speak of. The boy with spots at WHSmith turns him away as well. So does Superdrug. So do all the sports shops. Getting disheartened, and getting more and more cold and sober as the day goes silvery grey, Johnnie stops for a pint in the Central to calm his nerves. He looks at the people whizzing about Corporation Road, doing their daily jobs and errands and it looks like such a settled, easy life. And he can’t wait to have that amazing safety-net: a wage. Strangely, he’s even looking forward to getting up at the crack of dawn and coming home knackered after excruciating days at the grind, throwing himself on the sofa between Ellen’s Care-Bear arms. Maybe she’ll even have dinner ready for him! Finishing his Kronenbourg, Johnnie gets up to leave and asks the glass-collector if they’ve got any ‘vacancies’ (a term he picked up from the boy at WHSmith), but no, they haven’t. Back outside, he can’t be bothered asking at the Hairy Lemon because it’s got such a silly name. All sullen again, Johnnie’s head drops to the ground and he follows it into the gaudy Cleveland Centre, kicking bits of receipts and fag butts in really clichéd upsetness. He wanders the aisles aimlessly for a bit. He sees a pair of trainers he likes in Sport&Soccer, but he can’t afford them. Hands in pockets, Johnnie scampers into Bhs on the off-chance Georgie’s on her shift. Bored, she stands there behind the sweety counter, scoffing stick after stick of carrot dipped in humous. She’s begun eating healthy since adopting her third pink spare tyre round her belly, although it’s hard work what with all the kids coming in to buy their advent calendars ready for December the first. ‘Oh, hiya, Johnnie,’ she says, with orange teeth. Johnnie smiles. He’s surprised how much weight she’s put on recently and how spotty she’s becoming but, in the way that baby hippos are cute, she’s still quite attractive. ‘Alright, Georgie?’ he asks. ‘Not bad,’ she replies, swallowing. ‘Not very busy. What you been up to?’ Johnnie shrugs. ‘Not a lot,’ he says. ‘I was round yours today, mind; me and Bobby done a bit of Special K … it was mint …’ Georgie gulps. Just when she thought she’d ridden the flat of drugs, Johnnie goes and forces more shite up her boyfriend’s nose – that’s the problem living so close to drug dealers. Bastards!! ‘How is he??’ she asks, calming down. ‘Er, I dunno. I think his head’s a bit fucked like …’ Georgie looks at Johnnie with eyeballs starting to glisten. She’s never really liked Johnnie, especially since he’s sort of the devil sitting on Bobby’s right shoulder, and she’s the angel. ‘Where is he now?’ she asks, dipping another carrot stick. ‘Dunno; at home I guess like,’ is the reply. Georgie nods, wishing she could get Bobby to a doctor/psychiatrist/hippy spiritual healer. She looks around Bhs and the boring beige shopping arcade – she feels so locked and useless in her crap dead-end job. Johnnie, on the other hand, stares at her with a little bit of envy, then stares at the till and the brightly coloured shelves, trying to figure them out. ‘Any chance you’ve got any jobs going here like?’ he asks, and Georgie’s a bit taken aback to hear that pop out of his mouth. She gargles some humous. ‘Ah, I dunno,’ she replies, just as Mr Hawkson her evil boss starts coming over to have a go at her. He strides across the dingy chewing-gummed carpet in his sticky polyester shirt, eyebrows like droopy knitted scarves, and he takes one look at Johnnie in his Le Coq Sportif tracky top and spouts, ‘Who’s this?’ Johnnie feels a bit of an angry squirm in his belly, but he chokes it back trying to remain ca (argh) lm. ‘This is Johnnie,’ Georgie answers softly. ‘He’s looking for a job here.’ Mr Hawkson splutters out this dreadful sarky laughter. ‘Well tell him we’re fully manned,’ he snaps, then turns one hundred and seventy degrees and scuttles off back to his lair; the pokey office up by Menswear. ‘Ignore him, he’s an idiot,’ Georgie says, although her body language is a bit stiffer and colder now Hawkson’s been over. ‘Ah, right,’ Johnnie goes, gently walking backwards on his way out of the shop, ‘I’ll be off now, anyway. I’ll see you later, eh, take care. Oh, and I hope Bobby’s alright and all that.’ Left with those words, Georgie feels a bit sad and subdued for the rest of her shift. Once Hawkson gives her the OK to grab her coat and leave the sweety labyrinth, Georgie stampedes sharply to the bus station through the chilly, slowly freezing town. She goes via Virgin Megastore, picking up a sale copy of Television’s Marquee Moon for her and the boy to enjoy. Perhaps it’ll be something to have a conversation about – they haven’t spoken in a long long time. Clutching the yellow/ red bag in her mitts as she sits on the 65 back to Peach House, she tries to replay memories of when the two of them were happy together, but it’s a bit like staring up at stars on a dark night when you’re drowning in a pond. So distant. She remembers her and Bobby taking their bikes up the Eston Hills and watching the chemically sunset when there was supposed to be a meteor shower, but there was too much brown fog to see any shooting stars. She remembers dancing with Bobby to Bardo Pond the night she wore the sailor gear, spinning each other like ships’ compasses. She hopes to God Marquee Moon has some songs to boogie to. Georgie feels a new sense of optimism as she charges up the tower block to her boyfriend, but when she gets in the door she realises with a bit of dismay and fear he’s not there. Where is he? Naturally, Bobby’s gone a bit mad after Johnnie left him on that horrible bed of nails. Although the very visual aspect of the trip died down after a short while (the needles turned back into pink thread), Bobby was left with a horrible sense his brain’s been bent and stretched beyond repair. He couldn’t stop thinking about Syd Barrett and Bri Wilson and everyone else who ever lost the plot on acid, and it feels like he’s falling down the same stairs as them. At one point he picked up a bit of fluff from the carpet, examining it between his forefinger and thumb, and he burst out laughing for quarter of an hour, unable to work out what it was or where it had come from. ‘What are you?!’ he yelled at the bit of fluff. Later, Bobby the Artist started sorting frantically through the pile of post mounting on the
side, finding on top a letter from Francis Fuller, that poncey art dealer he met all those moons ago in Londres. Frothing at the mouth, Bobby tore open the envelope and out fluttered a fancy perfumed note expressing Francis’s gratitude for having ‘The Angels’ (244x233cm) to hang in his downstairs loo or somewhere like that. Tears in his eyes, Bobby slumped crash bang wallop onto the tough carpet, wishing all his favourite paintings weren’t now in the claws of horrible money-gurgling entrepreneurs. That one, ‘The Angels’ (244x233cm), symbolised all Bobby’s love for the girls in the block – and for people in general – but now they’re all devils. He used to be able to talk to people, without having to give them lots of money to be his friend. In a fit of rage, he grabbed Fuller’s £3,600 cheque (still sitting there grinning at him next to the doormat) and stormed into the kitchen and set one of the knobs on full power and burned the cheque to death. The paper went all curly then frazzled into dust on the greasy cooker. Remembering to switch off the hob (after all, he’s not that mad!), Bobby the Artist blew the dust into black snowflakes then returned to the lounge. Feeling itchy and claustrophobic in the tiny flat, Bobby wondered if he’d ever face the great outdoors again. All the staying inside has started giving him a yellow face and hands. Sniffing, Bobby glanced out the window, trying to figure out how sinister the town looked at that particular moment. He rated it about 6/10. Gathering up his medication (speedy coke from the Fourth Drawer Down, acid from the freezer), a clove of garlic, and a stake carved from one of his paintbrushes, Bobby decided to go out and face his fears. After all, he needed the fucking fresh air and all. Wrapped in three argyle sweaters (red then yellow then blue), Bobby went scuttling out of the haunted house. Now, unsure where he’s heading, Bobby walks in circles round the estate in some sort of trippy malady. As he passes passers-by along lengthy Marshall Avenue, Bobby can’t even look them in the face for fear they might turn into gargoyles or demons. His uncle’s Transit van bleeps past with a piranha-toothed goblin in the front, and Bobby doesn’t have a clue how to react. He takes a sharpish left down Ferndale Avenue, eyes fixed on the pavement. Safe things to look at are: pavements, houses, skies without clouds, beautiful girls. Dangerous things to look at are: all other people, spindly trees, clouds, shadows, animals, dark corners/blind corners. Bobby walks on, scared of everything. ‘Oh-oh, I hope that witch’s eyes don’t fall out,’ he thinks. ‘Oh God, I hope there’s not a medieval-style lynching round this corner,’ he thinks. As he gets to Corpus Christi, with the sporadic traffic speeding past this way and that, Bobby feels a strange compulsion to throw himself in the middle of the road, just to see what it feels like. Ooh, searing metal slicing flesh! Spluttering, Bobby wishes he wasn’t becoming such a morbid cunt. Head to the ground, he continues strolling the spooky highways and byways, and before long he finds himself lost in a vast maze of boring identical semi-detached housing – it’s called suburbia. Trying to retrace his footsteps to Peach House, all the streets just look the same, and he starts walking round and round in circles getting panicky. Curse those fucking soulless seventies prefabs! Clutching the garlic and stake, Bobby finds himself inadvertently walking out of town, following the road-signs in all the wrong directions. Soon the landscape starts changing from beige cubes and driveways to green carpets and zoomy A-roads, and Bobby’s not sure if it’s all just an elaborate hallucination. He half wishes he was back indoors with the kettle on and Georgie round his neck, but the idea of getting lost for one evening appeals to him too. That fucking tower block’s been making him very reclusive. Thinking back to books he gobbled up in art college like The Dharma Bums or Siddhartha (where the protagonists go off to live in isolation and end up all transcendent and purified), Bobby wonders if the countryside might have a similar healing effect on him. Feeling a bit Withnail&Iish, clomping through heavy grass in his Adidas trainers, Bobby the Artist veers off the A-road, setting his sights on the big black hill in the distance. He figures the only way he’ll be able to get over his torture is by going to the scariest place in the area (that woodland over there looks pretty sinister …) and swallowing the rest of his drugs in one last fight for his marbles back. He successfully overcame the IKEA torture chamber six hours ago, and he likes the idea of his Ego, Id and Superego going twelve rounds with each other in a spooky venue. He hopes Dracula comes back – he can’t wait to give that daft cunt what-for! He feels ready. Touching the bag of narcotics tucked in his Magic Pocket, Bobby the Artist makes a beeline for the Big Hill, lunging ketamine-legged over tall bushes and down sickly swamps. The weather’s reasonable but it’s damp underfoot, and Bobby feels his feet turn to sticky toffee puddings as he manoeuvres over the whistling farmland. The fields are sleepy patchwork quilts, stitched together with annoying great fences and hedgerows Bobby has to clamber over. He wonders if he’s feeling a bit transcendental already, but no, that’s just the frostbite. Panting, Bobby the Artist holds the stake and garlic aloft whenever a fierce dog barks or a crow caws or a cow says moo. He’s shivering. Plodding onwards, Bobby wishes he’d brought along some booze to warm his cockles, but then again he thinks a sober head might be the order of the day, to ensure a crystal-clear trip. There’s a slight anxiety that his plan might go to pot and he’ll wake up tomorrow in Acid Casualty at James Cook Hospital and he’ll never be the same again, but he’s only going to be battling his own imagination – how hard can that be? Bobby the Artist has always considered himself to be more of a lover than a fighter, but if any hook-noses or piranha-tooths come his way tonight there’s going to be trouble! Psyching himself up, Bobby the Artist clenches his fists together, stamping his feet closer closer to the foot of the hill. He begins to throw ecstasy pills down his throat, in a valiant attempt to stay warm and happy. It’s tricky having to dry-swallow them, Bobby conjuring mouthful after mouthful of gloopy spittle like a knackered old washing machine. Instantly, the placebo effect of whacking a few pills down the chute gives Bobby a spurt of energy over the last of the rickety fences. Breathing heavily, he feels sort of satisfied and stands hands-on-hips for a minute with the Big Hill leaning over him. The sky’s cold and full of stars, like God made up a huge negative dot-to-dot puzzle but forgot to put the numbers on. Bobby scrapes a bit of mud from his trainers onto a spooky-looking bush, but he’s not scared. He’s not scared. He’s just a bit chilly, that’s all. Tucking his hands into his sleeves, Bobby sneezes then begins the ascent up the hill. The Big Hill looks a little like the Matterhorn from this angle, the cap all jagged after the mines in its belly collapsed a hundred years ago. Clouds slink around the peak like slimy puddles. Crackling a few twigs, Bobby the Artist tries to judge a safe route into the pitch black pine forest but it’s far too blinding. He ends up tripping over filthy treestumps, losing his feet in bottomless bogs and crashing headfirst into branches. The owls and bats laugh at him. Sighing, Bobby the Artist wonders if he should’ve turned back ages ago. His trainer falls asleep in another puddle. Bogies waterfall out of his red clown nose. A big gust of icy air shoots up his jumpers. Bobby the Artist growls, panting, working his way up a tricky steep bit. He falls on his backside. If an artist falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, does he make a sound? ‘Fucking hell!!’ Bobby screams. Sniffing, he gets up and grabs the nearest conifer, shoes full of pine needles. For fifty yards it’s easier scrabbling along the ground like a mop-haired Dulux dog, Bobby submitting himself to the soggy earth; a caveman in golfwear. Isn’t it bracing!? In actual fact it’s fucking frustrating, and Bobby’s relieved to finally reach a levelled-out bit, and he flops down on a treetrunk with a gasp. Wet bummed, the Artist wipes his schnozzle and figures this is as good a place as any to take silly amounts of drugs and face his fears/death/runny nose. Birds flutter away, leaving him to it. A mole diverts his tunnel. Wood mice scamper off, giving Bobby a bit of privacy. And now, let the festivities begin! Slightly cagey and blue-fingered, Bobby removes his pouch of medicines from his trouser pocket, then divides up the Looney Tunes acid and starts poking it bit by bit down his neck. He gobbles up fiv
e more ecstasy tablets, hoping the MDMA will combat any untoward negative thinking. Lastly, he hoovers a huge wedge of speedy cokemix up his left nostril, sniffing the spicy white shite off a groove in his wrist. Then he twiddles his thumbs for a bit, waiting for something to happen. He’s almost tempted to go all tribal, for example ripping all his clothes off and leaping round a campfire, but to be honest he’s quite settled as he is on this treetrunk. He’s got no idea what time it is except sometime round nighttime, and he wonders if Georgie’s noticed he’s gone. He hopes she’s missing him, but he hopes she doesn’t phone the police and send a search party into the woods – he’d fucking shit himself if loads of rozzers turned up with spotlights while he’s tripping his bonce off. The clearing seems pretty secluded though – all he has for company is a bunch of dying Christmas trees and an internal monologue. Shuffling on the crispy trunk, Bobby the Artist gets himself comfortable for an evening in hell. He wonders what ghoulies are going to visit him tonight – strange to think they’re all in his head already, but until recently they’d never really been acquainted with each other. He wonders if every human has these same horrible demons lurking about in the caverns of their brains, or if it’s just those with insecurities or shyness or depression or anxiety. After all, as the saying goes, you’re only ever using ten per cent of your noggin at any one time – perhaps the other ninety per cent is like a dingy waiting room full of monsters and horrid sea creatures and zombies. Or perhaps it’s just useless squidgy pink blubber. Stupid old brain! Sighing, Bobby knocks his knees together, awaiting delirium. At one point a dog wails from the east of the forest, and Bobby thinks the spooky hallucinations are beginning, but don’t worry it’s actually just a dog wailing from the east of the forest. Anticipation! Having a little shiver, Bobby expects the frostiness to play a major part in tonight’s trip – he imagines the trees all dropping fat icicles through his skull, or him becoming encased in ice David Blaine-style and dying. But, to be fair, it’s actually a little warmer in the clearing, and rubbing your hands and legs together works quite well in generating heat. He wishes he had the tools to build a proper campfire, but a couple of hours down the line he’ll probably be in a totally different mindset, and probably end up setting fire to himself or the animals of Farthing Wood. Best just to stick where he is, he concedes. Squirming his arms right into the torso of his jumpers, sleeves flopping dead by his sides, Bobby watches his steamy breath closely for ghosts or skeletons. He wonders what came first: the horror film or the bad trip? Where do these horrible images come from? Any minute now, he expects the whole woodland to turn into some sort of gruesome garden – crawling with lice and dead bodies and owls pecking his eyes out with rusty beaks – but, more than an hour after dropping the acid/E/speed concoction, the forest seems quite the same. Confused, Bobby strains his eyes, then shovels the rest of the drugs into his mouth. Feeling slightly suicidal, Bobby chucks eighteen more Mitsis and eight more blotters down his helter-skelter food pipe. He wants some action! After all, he hasn’t come to the forest to sit on a freezing treetrunk all night. He wants to chase poltergeists, whip lanky Frankensteins red raw, and re-murder the living dead. He wants the demons to fear him this time! But, two hours and much thumb-twiddling later, the sun’s beginning to come up and still no sign of any monsters. It’s a miracle! It only took a few tabs to send him potty during The Scary Incident with the Acid, so why then have fifteen of the blighters not touched him in the slightest? He hasn’t had a single gurn all night. Scratching his chin, Bobby shifts his weight on the trunk, all the trees becoming gold and tangerine as the sun yawns and wakes up. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Bobby the Artist has a bit of a stretch himself, feeling quite knackered now and confused. There’s a vague disappointment at having such an abnormally high tolerance for drugs all of a sudden, but ultimately happiness for not having another Cosmic Trip from Hell. He takes three attempts at chucking the empty drug wrappers up the nearest conifer, then has one last look round the clearing for demonic strangers and wanders off. He drops the smelly garlic and stake down a rabbit-hole. The descent from the Big Hill is a lot easier, Bobby gathering speed as he makes ski-trails in the pine needles. He kicks cones out of his path. Rubbing his eyes, Bobby the Artist traces a safe route back to the A-road from such a high vantage point, avoiding muddy fallow fields and hazardous spiky hedgerows. A farmer’s out on his tractor in one of the green fields, chasing sheep, and Bobby gives him a big cheesy ‘Hello’ as he clambers over the last fence and onto the hard shoulder. The farmer ignores him though. There’s not many cars zooming around at this time in the morning, and Bobby collapses on the skinny lay-by all pooped. He considers for a second hitchhiking back to Peach House, but he’s got two pound fifty in his pocket and before long the 65A Arriva comes jetting past. Bobby gives a thumbs-up to the driver, handing over the money, then he sits at the back casually brushing leaves and dirt off his golf outfit. The driver glances occasionally at Bobby as he pulls back onto the dual carriageway, wondering if he’s homeless. The driver’s got saggy eyelids, squinting at the road, trundling at a snail’s pace towards the roundabout on this bitterest of glittery mornings. He’s pretty shattered himself. He and his wife were up till two last night after a few drinkies down the Golden Lion in Loftus, and he’s dreading facing the schoolkids in a couple of hours. Little shits. Although he was a fairly lippy youngster himself, back in the seventies you at least used to respect your elders, and the police, and the bus driver. Huffing out air, the driver glances again at Bobby the Artist dozing in his mirror. You don’t half get some scruffy characters on the bus, he thinks to himself. He glares at Bobby’s mud-crusted argyle sweater. It seems like such an undignified job sometimes, driving the bus, dealing with gobby youths and smack addicts not paying their fares, doils fighting at the back, tracksuits swerving in front of you on their bikes. He sighs. He wonders what Bobby’s story is. It looks like he’s been sleeping in a ditch, dirty bugger. Sliding gracefully down Ormesby Bank, the driver stares blue-eyed at the fuzzy panoramic view of the town stretching its arms out for a big hug. He wishes he was a skydiving instructor. There’d be none of this unglamorous chauffeuring old ladies and scabby adolescents; just vast blue sky and a parachute and some counting. He scratches his eyeballs. In his mirror, Bobby the Artist slowly starts turning green, crushed in a heap on the left-hand seat. Unwittingly he drops off to sleep halfway down Cargo Fleet, unaware of the bus steaming past Peach Plum and Pear Houses. Further into town, the driver picks up a few more passengers: mostly young professionals starting work at 8am and the lovely Mrs Turner from North Ormesby who always says good morning and coughs like a metronome on the lonesome seat near the front. Gaining speed, the bus kerplunks heavily round Borough Road, all the windows and handrails and seat-fittings buzzing like rattlesnakes. Once in sight of the bus station, the driver has a nervous shiver, knowing the return journey entails picking up lots of grumpy lads and feisty young lasses in school uniforms. He grudgingly twizzles the fluorescent destination to read mirror-image LOFTUS, pulling into the parking bay. He whooshes open the front door, letting out Mrs Turner and the professional zombies. Yawning into his hand, the driver’s just about to press the doors shut when suddenly he realises somebody’s missing. Bobby’s completely disappeared from his rear-view mirror. He leans his head out of the glass cabin, hoping the little shit hasn’t been sick or OD’d or fallen into a coma. Such lowlifes! Such an annoyance! Perhaps Monsieur Driver just got out the wrong side of bed this morning, but he scowls and grumbles as he trudges down the aisle to sort out the golfer. ‘Hang on hang on hang on,’ he shouts at the rowdy kids waiting to get on, with candy fags and Astrobangers hanging out their mouths. Reaching the end of the bus, the driver plonks himself down on the back seat to find Bobby the Artist laid in a ball on the furry, grubby floor. He must’ve dropped off. ‘Wakey wakey!’ he yells, turning his nose up at the Artist’s brown soggy trousers. Has the bastard shit himself? All Vaseline-eyed, Bobby returns from Dreamworld to find a big hefty man
towering over him. Spluttering, Bobby scrabbles back onto his seat, feeling a bit embarrassed and awkward, and he asks, ‘Where are we? Bus station? Shite … you can’t drive me back to Cargo Fleet, can you?’ The driver glares at him with dismal disgust. He shakes his head. ‘Get off the bus,’ he snaps, all moody eyebrows. ‘What are you, on drugs or something?’ Bobby the Artist wipes a bit of crispy sleep out of his eyes. ‘Erm, I don’t know … I think so …’ he replies, confused, getting ushered back down the aisle with the driver’s hand clamped round his elbow. Bobby tries to say sorry and see you later to the man but his mouth’s full of gunge, and he nearly trips up when he hits the bus station tiles. He sucks in air. It’s cold. He wishes he had money to get back home, and he wishes he didn’t snap all his bank cards up. Hmming to himself, Bobby the Artist staggers out of the station in a daze. Outside, the morning’s all frosty and bright like a big blue icepop, and all the streets seem incredibly sober as Bobby waltzes round the shops with their shutters shut. He coughs clouds into the sky. He’s still vaguely waiting for his trip to begin, but being straight on such a beautiful morning feels quite uplifting too. The sunshine makes all the colours more vibrant than any sunshine acid ever could. Feeling happier but still incredibly knacked, Bobby the Artist begins a slow, meandering stroll back to Peach House. His flat lives about two miles away, past threatening flyovers and treacherous supermarket car parks, but it’s pleasant being out at such an early hour, everything silent and cold and fairytale-ish. En route to Peach House Bobby’s legs start turning to jelly, but that’s tiredness, not drugs. He feels content getting his first bit of exercise in months, although by the time he reaches Longlands crossroads he’s suffering from dizzy spells and weak knees. He slumps for two seconds on the edge of the pavement, getting his breath back, dreading the four-storey ascent to his bed. It’s been such an ordeal getting home, it’s already 11.15 when Bobby finally peels himself from the kerb, and he decides to pop in the Brambles Farm for a nice refreshing glass of tapwater. The hardcore locals snigger at Bobby – what with his long buoyant hair and drink of water – but the Artist guzzles it down proudly, sat just to the left of the bar between the bar-heater and Sky Sports News. He stays there for the duration of the tapwater and one of the landlord’s Regals, then he returns to the great outdoors all rejuvenated and wet-lipped. He feels like he might’ve detoxed all those shitty useless drugs out of his system, and he makes a vow to have a poo and a wee when he gets in, just to make sure. He sits on the toilet singing along to the water pipes. Then he stumbles into the bedroom, strips off the three argyle sweaters, mucky trousers and stinking argyle socks, and falls into bed like a scuba diver. Splish!! Straight away he’s asleep, churning the bedcovers and snoring and dreaming of empty spaces, and that’s how Georgie finds him five hours later, face down in the pillows. She has a great big watermelon smile to herself. She’s been worried sick about Bobby since he disappeared last night, although she imagined he was probably just round Johnnie’s getting forced to do lots of drugs again. Slipping out of her skirt and sticky blouse, Georgie gently jumps on top of the lump in the bed. She plants a few kisses on his lips, reviving the sleeping beauty. She frowns at the crispy mud pasted on one of his cheeks, like he’s been using a very wrong colour foundation. Blinking, Bobby the Artist rolls over, rising from the Black Sea. ‘Yawn,’ he says, smiling at Georgie. She looks particularly angelic this evening, what with her head in the way of the lamp-shade, causing a halo. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks, stroking Bob’s chin. ‘Alright,’ he replies. Georgie sprawls out on the remaining bit of mattress, staring at the ceiling. She’s feeling healthier now she’s eating more vegetables than sweets – today at work she gobbled a tuna salad from M&S, and she feels surprisingly energised despite swallowing only leaves all day. She realises sweets just give you that superficial sugar buzz for half an hour, then they knacker you out. She feels like an ex-addict herself – thank God she’s discovered slow-burning carbohydrates! Moving a hand over Bobby’s hip, all she wants now is her boyfriend to be happy again. ‘Bobbbbeeey?’ she enquires, ‘what do drugs do for you again?’ Bobby the Artist scrabbles in the covers, trying to sit upright. He feels a bit groggy, having just woken out of a coma, and he takes a minute untangling his thoughts, sniffing loudly. ‘Nothing, apparently,’ he murmurs, taking a big gulp of air then submerging himself in pillows again. ‘I did something silly last night,’ Bobby continues, ‘I went into the woods, like, to do all the drugs like and sort my head out. It didn’t work though. Well, I mean, the drugs didn’t work anyway – it’s like I’ve got a massive tolerance all of a sudden. I don’t know if it’s really doing it for me any more, you know, drugs and that …’ Georgie smiles. ‘Ooh, that’s weird,’ she says, biting her lip. She decides not to tell Bobby the Artist she replaced all his Class A drugs with sweets. Instead, she rolls on top of him and gives him a squeeze. And, for the first time in weeks, Bobby goes ‘mmmm!’ and strokes her back, and they have a lovely lingering kiss even though he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a while. What a strange couple of months. Georgie’s glad she’s hung on, and she’s glad Bobby’s giving up drugs ‘of his own accord’. She has a grin to herself, then the two of them turn to jigsaws, sticking to each other perfectly in the warm double-bed. It’s only about six but it’s delightful not to move from that spot, and soon their eyes start caving in and they drop into dreams. ‘Night night, darling,’ Georgie whispers, unaware she’s about to have the happiest dreams of her life. She wakes up the next morning full of beans, and she has a really fun day at work, chatting to all the customers and nibbling rabbit food and thinking about Bobby. Her boyfriend, way up high in the tower block, wakes up at about noon with a crushing headache like his skull’s been replaced with a rusty cannonball. He swings one leg after the other off the mattress, then puts on some clothes and coughs up some fluorescent bile into a glass. Georgie’s made him a salt and vinegar crisp sarnie, and on top of it there’s a note: HOPE YOU’RE OK. RING ME IF YOU NEED ANYTHING. LOVE XX. Smiling a pink banana, Bobby scratches his head and thanks the Lord he’s got Georgie. He yawns. He’s feeling fucking groggy this morning, suffering the greatest comedown in a long time, but it’s good to be sober at least. He feels like he can look at lampshades and carrier bags and pencils again without overanalysing them or turning them into monsters. He can even look at himself in the mirror again without seeing Dracula, although he is still pretty dishevelled and his hair’s all over the place. He’s feeling a lot better though, mentally, and he downs the crisp sarnie with a glass of cool water. It’s weird being on a detox diet all of a sudden, like some sort of fanny or supermodel, but to be honest towards the end all the rock-and-rollness has been getting a bit laboured and depressing. It’s nice being on planet Earth again. Right on cue, the sun gets a teeny bit brighter and the one cloud Bobby can see out the bedroom window seems to be a smiling bunny-rabbit. Clouds, you’re not even scary any more! Heart jumping with glee, Bobby darts into the lounge and he rings Georgie off the house phone and he has to say he loves her. ‘I love you!’ he says. After that, Bobby the Artist gets out his Crayola crayon set from Georgie’s perfectly stacked pile by the TV, and he sketches his girlfriend with a great big heart and not one ounce of fat either. He’s just about to add long wavy mascara when suddenly he’s disturbed by his phone going off in a crumpled pair of old trousers. ‘Now then!’ he ping-pongs, expecting it to be Georgie again. But in fact it’s just that daft cunt from London. Bent Lewis puts on his trendy-with-the-kids voice and says to Bobby, ‘Hello, mate! Long time no speak … how’s it going, mate?’ Bobby the Artist flops back onto his bed like a grey ribbon getting dropped. ‘Oh, I’m alright,’ he answers. ‘Good, good,’ Lewis says, eyeing up the sexy headshot Bobby shot in the tower block car park. ‘Have you managed to do any more painting?’ he continues. ‘See, I’ve had lots of offers for commissions and suchlike …’ Bobby the Artist creases his face up. It’s been a while since he last thought about putting paint to paper/canvas/carpet. ‘Not reall
y,’ he replies. ‘Like, I dunno if I’m gonna be able to paint anything for a bit … I feel all under pressure, know what I mean? … My head’s been a bit of a mess, and you didn’t like those nudie paintings I did recently, did you, so …’ Over in Clerkenwell, Bent Lewis spins back and forth on his spinny chair like a record trying to start. Creak creak! ‘Hmm,’ he hmms, ‘well, I don’t know what to say. You had such potential, Bobby! But, I guess there’s other things you could do. You’ve got a very saleable personality; in fact I’ve come up with a few ideas to get you back in the public eye, if you’re interested.’ Bobby the Artist raises a lazy eyebrow. Miles away, stroking an abstract paperweight, Bent Lewis reels off 789 business proposals for Bobby’s next career move. Here’s a small excerpt: ‘#782: Greetings card illustrator. #783: Television presenter, possibly for a hip, edgy modern art programme. #784: Art workshops, preferably for deprived kids in tower blocks like Bobby’s = great PR! #785: Create a range of funky, paint-splatter argyle sweaters, to bring Pringle into the twenty-first century. #786: Hospital murals again, but this time not on acid. #787: Painter/decorator. #788: The person who sits in the corners of galleries and museums, telling visitors not to breathe on the masterpieces. #789: Rent boy?’ Bent Lewis licks his lips, coming to an end. ‘Fuck off,’ Bobby the Artist snaps. And with that he turns off his phone and lodges it under one of the heavy legs of the bed, then he jumps up and down fifteen times on the boingy bronze bedcovers. Cheerio telephone! Gasping for breath, Bobby finds himself in hysterics, wandering back through to the lounge for a fag and a sit down. Maybe being popular just isn’t for him. He preferred his life so much more when him and Georgie made fun on the cheap, for example posing for portraits or flying paper aeroplanes out the window. He wished he could walk into a pub without everyone expecting a drink off him, or calling him a tight twat if he doesn’t automatically buy everyone a round. Perhaps the worst bit of all though was feeling a bit lost, like all being famous is about is getting lots of initial success and then a slow decline into mediocrity and backlash and paranoia. It feels good to knock it on the head for a bit, and he hopes he won’t have to become a total recluse to get his life back to normal again. After that fag, Bobby the Artist tears open all the scattered post left here and there on the side, arranging it into piles of cheques, bills, junk and ‘miscellaneous’. He slips the cheques into his blue Halifax book, slings on an extra jumper, then scurries out of the tower block into the sunny white afternoon. Racing back into town, Bobby clutches the book in his pocket, making it sweaty, imagining with a grin all the cheques going up in flames like the ‘Angels’ one. What a lovely fuck-you it would be to Lewis and co., to throw their money back in their faces! What an incredible publicity stunt! No. No. No. Losing it again, Bobby the Artist wishes fame wasn’t so fucking tantalising. He feels his head getting muddy again. Pacing through town, Bobby the Artist tries his best not to step on any cracks. He skips up Linthorpe Road to the Halifax, smiling at all the lovely passers-by not turning into zombies any more. Waiting in the queue, Bobby catches his breath staring at the ticking clock. It’s 3.34pm. He has a little cough. By 3.39pm Bobby’s cashed the £12,000 worth of cheques. He pays back in about £5,000 to live on happily the next year or so with Georgie, then he catches the bus back home to Peach House and strolls up to door 5E and calls for Johnnie and hands him an A5 brown envelope with the other £7,000 in. Johnnie’s been having trouble recently trying to get a job, especially round these parts, and there’s nothing Bobby the Artist would hate more than to see Johnnie relapse into a life of stinking crime and frustration again. At least £7,000 should get him a few Americano pizzas and that. All milky-eyed and shocked, Johnnie leaps out the door and gives his friend an enormous squeeze. Bobby giggles. He’s glad they’re back in each other’s good books again, and weirdly he feels like some sort of born-again Christian, or Father Christmas. Sniffing, Johnnie offers him inside for a smoke and a can of budget lager with Ellen (who’s there sat waving from the brown settee), but Bobby the Artist smiles humbly and shakes his head and says it’s alright. He actually wants to go back downstairs and start painting again. For the first time in donkeys’ he feels like he’s got some stories to tell again – alright, so they’re all probably going to involve skully carpets and goblins and torture chambers, but at least they’ll only be there in paint on canvas, not there in his head and bedroom. Spinning grins this way and that, Johnnie watches the Artist toddle off back downstairs, hands shaking with the money in between them. He turns to Ellen and they both start gawping at each other. They’ve been getting on well again the last couple of weeks, but with a bit of a lack of money it’s been hard to keep each other really entertained. They’re still yet to have sex again, but Ellen likes the new Johnnie – the one who doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night screaming ‘Police! Police?’ any more – and she’s considering getting herself off the dole too, but only if the right job comes along. Professional babysitter would be great, or someone who tests the comfiness of couches in DFS. She saw a poster recently, Sellotaped on the door of Teesside University, advertising drug-testing and a payment of £800 to go with it, but she’s not sure if they’re the drugs she’s thinking of. All they’ve had in the flat is a quickly shrinking block of tac and a twelve-pack of budget lager – it’s been a difficult couple of weeks. ‘Yey yey yey yey!’ Ellen yelps at the sight of all that money. Johnnie considers throwing all the fifty-quid notes up in the air, like a daft Lottery winner in a soap opera, but the flat’s a bit of a tip and it could be difficult collecting them up again. What if one of those fifty quids fell in Ellen’s manky tomato soup!? Breathing in out in out really sharply, Johnnie just dithers about the flat in wibbly ecstasy, unsure what to do with himself. After a while he launches himself panting onto the sofa and gives Ellen a passionate bear hug. It’s as if the Angel Gabriel has come down from Heaven and blessed them! The living room seems much brighter and happier, all the video recorders and thrown leaflets and pizza boxes smiling at one another. That old grey town out the window suddenly looks silver; no, make that gold. All wrapped up on the sofa, Johnnie and Ellen are sort of speechless except for a few ‘Fuck fuck fucks’ or ‘Wheeeees’. To celebrate, they decide to go out on the piss or, better than that, go for a fancy meal somewhere in town. They feel like film-stars, charging round the flat getting spruced up and putting on perfumes, Johnnie checking the money on the mantelpiece every half minute to see if it’s still real. ‘Fucking hell, it’s still reeeeal!’ he yelps for the sixteenth time. Ellen laughs through her teeth through in the bedroom, getting a bit bored of that now. She wiggles her shiny legs through the hole in a miniskirt, puts on lots of slap and the glamorous cowl-necked thing, heart going bang bang bang all the time like an auction mallet auctioning off lots of happiness. Johnnie juggles a Ben Sherman shirt out of his drawer and onto his top half, then swaps tracky bottoms for Burton trousers and pokes £150 into one of their pockets. Ellen suddenly has a little moment of ‘Shit, do I look alright??’ but they both look like gods, and their faces are colour-wheels. Passing Alan Blunt the Cunt on the way out, Johnnie and Ellen yelp in unison, ‘Now then, Alan!’ but he’s looking a bit down and dismal in his soggy brown cardy, and he pretty much blanks them. But never mind! Johnnie and Ellen are in a bubble of absolute glee like two happy critters in a hamster-ball, and they race out of the flat giggling and showing their teeth. They decide to get the bus because Johnnie’s not driving drunk any more. He’s gotten used to his new life already – he feels much more easy-going, and even when three cocky youngsters get on at the Buccaneer, chanting, ‘Fat cunt, fat cunt, you fat bastard!’ at perfectly normal people on the street outside, he manages to keep his head. Johnnie and Ellen step off the bus on Linthorpe Road feeling like millionaires, now and then catching their reflections in car mirrors and pizza-shop windows and smiling. The street’s not too busy tonight, just odd people slowly parking their bums on seats in pubs, workers waiting around for buses home and shop assistants starting to put their shops to
bed. It’s a foul old drizzly evening, but who gives a shit when you’ve got money in your pocket and your best friend round your waist. ‘I love you,’ Ellen whispers in Johnnie’s ear as they mount the ramp thing into Joe Rigatoni’s, that swanky Italian restaurant opposite Kwik Save car park. The last time she came to Joe’s was after her cousin’s wedding three years back, which ended in tragedy – everyone got pissed and the groom started a fight with the page-boy and, worse than that, they got divorced a few months after, didn’t they. Sitting down with Johnnie at a moody candle-lit table in the corner, Ellen holds his hand with two of hers and she feels absolutely elated to be with him. ‘Look at us,’ she says, ‘two kids from a scruffy old flat in a place like this …’ Johnnie laughs. He doesn’t think it really makes a difference where they’re from though; he just wants to have a laugh and get lashed and stuffed. They stare lovingly into each other’s eyes like the lady and the tramp. The rest of the restaurant’s fairly empty, just lots of waiters waiting around and the odd other couple sat far far away gobbling pasta and shrieking with laughter now and then. Johnnie and Ellen snigger at their bellissimo lives. They order the half pasta half pizza (Pasta: lasagne for him, spag bol for her. Pizza: Americano!), and Johnnie gets a pint of Kronenbourg and Ellen gets a bottle of Chardonnay. They’re not foolish enough to guzzle down the Krug or Moët & Chandon; they’re not fucking that loaded. Waiting for their food, Johnnie and Ellen start bouncing up and down on their seats, banging their cutlery like Oliver Twists at the China Buffet King. ‘God, this is amazing!’ Johnnie mutters, all dreamy and puff-cheeked, ‘What a … Bobby’s an absolute star!’ He looks at Ellen, her face all radiant in the wee candles like she’s been cast out of gold, and his teeth almost fall out he’s smiling so much. But then suddenly it all turns a bit sour, and his jaw drops. The food gets served, which is marvellous, but who should be carrying the steamy plates but Angelo Bashini, Ellen’s old flame. Angelo was supposed to move back to Sardinia, but instead he’s living in Acklam now in a flat with his new girlfriend, and he’s got a great job in a fancy restaurant (this one), and he stands there handing out the pizza/pasta with an arrogant grin and a much smarter shirt on than Johnnie’s. ‘Hello, Ellen,’ Angelo drawls all Conneryish, one big hairy hand on her cream-cake shoulder. He knows Johnnie won’t have the gall to lash out at him in such a high-profile location, and he takes sly glances at his arch adversary to see if he’s riling him up. Angelo raises a curly eyebrow, staring down Ellen’s top and pouting really exaggerated, wearing such tight tailored trousers you can tell he’s got a big knob. Usually this sort of behaviour would rot Johnnie’s insides, make him completely insane, and Angelo knows he’s pushing his luck if he wants to go home in one piece. But today Johnnie just looks at him all nonchalant, scratches his chin and spouts, ‘Waiter, be a darling and get us that bottle of Krug.’ Angelo cackles, partly because Johnnie pronounces it wrong, and partly because Ben Sherman and champagne simply do not mix. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for the money in advance, sir,’ Angelo says deadpan, wanting to embarrass Johnnie and inside his tummy’s all knotted with excitement. Johnnie whips two of the fifty-pound notes onto the tablecloth. ‘Run along then,’ he spits, and Angelo has no choice but to toddle off, desperately trying to check those notes in the dim light but they’re genuine anyhow. ‘Bravo,’ Ellen smiles, and the two of them spend the rest of the night glugging champers out of the bottle and burping ha-ha-ha and hee-hee-hee and all the other sorts of laughs. Angelo spends the rest of the night lurking in the kitchen, mortified. He tries to console himself that his life’s better than Johnnie’s, that Ellen wasn’t a good shag anyway, but if he’s honest he’s not happy at all working horrific hours at Joe’s, and the flat at Acklam has no hot water, and that bird he’s with snogged another man last weekend and although she says it means nothing he knows it probably does. Isn’t life cruel sometimes! Back on table undici, Johnnie and Ellen are falling arse over tit in love all over again. Johnnie’s so fun and laid-back and wealthy, he’s falling in love with himself a little bit too. It’s as if he scribbled all his fears and secrets and doubts onto tiny bits of paper and tied them to the legs of seagulls, and let them whizz off in every direction. Never before has he felt so free and cheery. It’s taken this long to realise Angelo’s just a fucking wanker, not a threat. The same goes for all other hot-blooded, sleazy macho men. Wankers; all of you, wankers! Absolutely beaming (and full up), Johnnie pays £27.90 for the meal, leaving no tip for the waiters just in case Angelo gets a slice. Then, striding out into the baby blue night, Johnnie and Ellen stroke fingers and make jokes about Angelo, and they think up ways to spend seven thousand pounds. Holidays! Food! Booze! Sky telly! New curtains! Oh, it’s all too much for them as they wander back to the bus station, delirious. Not even a few specks and spots of rain can dampen their mood – they duck under cover into the Dairy Milk depot, traipsing round the tiled aisles without a care in the world. It’s one of those many days in your life where you say this is the best day of your life. Smirking at each other, Johnnie and Ellen smoke a tab outside queue number eight, watching all the buses splishing and splashing around the courtyard. By the time they hop on the right one (Johnnie feels like a knob paying with a tenner, but luckily the driver doesn’t have a go at him), the rain’s wandered off elsewhere, and the two of them sit at the back kissing passionately, the raindrops all sliding sideways off the windows as the bus steams forward. They get to Peach House at about half six, swinging each other round and round the car park all giddy and merry. At the fortified front door they spot a soggy Chinese man standing there solemnly in a navy blue suit, though it could’ve been pale blue to start with. Johnnie and Ellen can’t help sniggering at how desperate and minuscule he looks, bashing his fingers into the metal keypad and getting annoyed. ‘Are you trying to get in, mate?’ Johnnie asks, suppressing the laughter for a bit. The Chinese man nods, his straight black hair even straighter and blacker in the rain. ‘Here, then,’ Johnnie goes, whacking in the code then holding the door open for him. Still in fits of giggles, him and Ellen charge upstairs frantically, leaving the man to wait forever and ever for the cranky lift (it’s finally fixed, but it’s making quite curious sounds nowadays as it travels at tortoise-speed up and down the shaft). ‘God, we haven’t had a Chinese for fucking ages, have we,’ Johnnie states, quarter way up the tower block, bursting into hysterics again. He burps bubbles. The rumble of the lift going down passes them as they reach fourth floor, then it quietly clunks to the ground and the aluminium doors shunt open. Shaking drippy drops from his hair, the Chinese man sighs then steps into the dank lift. He’s feeling shattered after being at work since 9.30am, and it hasn’t really helped getting soaked in the process. He’s dying to get home and see his new wife – him and Lily got hitched two months back, had a two-week honeymoon in Hong Kong which was rampant and beautiful, and he still gets dragonflies in his tummy whenever he thinks about her. At least this is his last job of the day – it would be a bloody block of flats though, wouldn’t it. He finds people who live in flats much ruder and harder to cope with than ordinary people like him who live in ordinary houses. Sniffing, the Chinese man gets out on floor six, hoping to Buddha he isn’t getting a cold. Holding his briefcase close to his chest, he takes a bit of a breath then knocks twice on the door marked 6E, except the E’s fallen off. He waits, glancing up and down the corridor. After a couple more knocks, Alan Blunt the Cunt finally comes to the door, dressed in his brown cardigan and beige cords and slippers. He peers at the little man through thick tortoiseshell glasses. ‘Yeah?’ Alan says. ‘Hello, Alan Blunt? I’m Mr Wong from the Loan Company. I’m here to talk about your current payment plan. Can I come in, please?’ Alan’s stomach does a full loop-the-loop and his chin drops like a bowling ball down a mountain. At first he considers slamming the door in the man’s face, but then he thinks it might not be completely bad news and he’s only a little Chink and he’s not exactly going to cause Alan much harm. Mr Wong strides into the bare living room, str
aight away clocking the racy tabloids glued to the walls, but he tries to remain calm. It does feel a bit like walking into Hell, though. And, as if the cuttings aren’t bad enough, Alan’s just been cooking scrambled eggs and that happens to be Mr Wong’s least favourite food too. Standing erect rather than plonking himself on the battered couch, Mr Wong explains to Alan, ‘We’ve noticed you haven’t been keeping up to date with your payments, Mr Blunt, and that cheque you sent last week bounced, I’m afraid. Now, I know this time of year can be a little tough on the pockets – what with Christmas coming up – but I’m afraid we’re going to need last month’s payment in full before the tenth, or else you could face court action, or risk having your belongings repossessed …’ Alan Blunt listens to the words fall like bird droppings out of Mr Wong’s mouth. The Chinaman stands really cold and stiff while he talks, which only adds to Alan’s antagonism. As the horror of the situation dawns on him, Alan’s whole skeleton starts shuddering and his veins all turn to ropes. His forehead gets sweaty. ‘Well, I dunno like, because see I got laid off by ICI so I might just have to like wait and see …’ Alan blurts, wishing he’d figured out a better excuse in his head and not nailed those three Super Tennents earlier. Mr Wong glares at him blankly, then speaks like a computer, ‘You owe the Loan Company £289.63 including interest for last month’s missed payment, plus a further £267.81 for this coming month, Mr Blunt.’ Alan nods gravely, mouth starting to gather white slop in the corners, and he screws his eyes up and snaps, ‘Well I can’t get it.’ Mr Wong keeps staring unsympathetically, desperate to get home to his lovely wife and away from this pathetic bastard. He spits back at Alan, ‘Well then I’m afraid we have no choice but to contact the bailiffs …’ Alan gulps, getting even angrier and shakier. He starts to hear an awful repetitive banging like an out-of-tune snare drum coming from downstairs, and it’s a horrible soundtrack to his suffering. Bang! Bang! Bang!! Fucking hell. Alan feels his ankles and brain vibrate, and the red veins in his temples start bangbangbanging too. He curses Johnnie and Ellen. What the fuck are they doing down there? Uncontrollable twitches begin to sprout about Alan’s face, and all the while Mr Wong just stands there like a passive Buddhist statuette. ‘Get out of my fucking flat, you Chinky shit!’ Alan Blunt the Cunt screams, unable to keep his composure any longer. Mr Wong finally shows a bit of emotion: dropped jaw. Wong tries to say, ‘Well, if you don’t keep up the payments you could easily lose this flat,’ but before he knows it Alan’s lunging across the room and gets both slippery hands round the little man’s neck. Fingers stab in like knitting needles. Go for the jugular go for the jugular, the little devil on Alan’s shoulder yelps in his ear. Heart racing, Alan just can’t help himself from beating this person to a pulp. He’s had a very hard couple of weeks. ‘No no no!’ Mr Wong screams, legs and arms kicking out like a woodlouse turned upside down. He tries to guard his precious little head, tucking it into his chest, but Alan’s kicks are much too probing and soon his cheeks and eyeballs are all bruised and he starts weeping out salty blood. The banging keeps on going downstairs, and Alan Blunt the Cunt stops for a second to rub his temples, all wound up and dizzy. Mr Wong takes the opportunity to whip out his company mobile and phone 999, but all he manages to say is ‘Help police’ before Alan takes another swing at him and the phone spins out of his hand and splits open. ‘You daft cunt!’ Alan roars, launching a thousand more boots to the poor noodle-nibbler’s noddle. Mr Wong makes a little gurgle, desperately scrabbling for the door, but then suddenly he’s quiet and still and he goes to sleep facedown on Alan’s filthy underlay. He seeps out a little strawberry sauce. Panting, Mr Blunt gives Mr Wong a nudge on the shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to be moving. Alan bites his lip. Then all in one go he starts panicking and shitting himself, realising the Chinaman might be dead and the police might be on their way too – don’t they have satellites in the sky to track every mobile on earth? Alan glances gingerly at Mr Wong’s phone, all broken there on the carpet like a dead spaceship. He feels a strange sensation of being watched. Shaking manically, Alan Blunt grabs the mobile and takes it up to floor eight and kicks it down one of the corridors (where the Fletchers live), but he doubts if that’ll put the satellites off the scent at all. After all, there’s still a dead Chinese person in his flat. Breaths hovering in his gullet, Alan speedily stumbles back down to 6E, realising his time’s probably up. He’s got no clue how he’s going to save himself. He feels sick looking at Mr Wong now oozing blood along the tatty skirting-board, and he slams the door sharply behind him and deadlocks it and does the chain. Oh God. Next, Alan Blunt the Cunt breaks into tears, staggering aimlessly round and round the messy flat. He stops once or twice at the blurry window, staring down at Cargo Fleet Lane and the tiny bit of Corpus Christi field not blotted out by houses, and he thinks for a second about Tiny Tina. He spites Corpus Christi Carol for not letting him talk to the girl. Such a lovely little girl. Carol doesn’t know anything about him – he’s not a bad man; he’s just lonely, and he needs someone to play with. Sniffing up snot and sobs, Alan steps into his bedroom and sits for a minute on the unmade mattress. He cries hysterically for about fifteen minutes, then he gets over it and starts to breathe a bit more casually. He slides open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and for the first time in months he takes out The Photo. The Photo was taken in the living room of 57 Queens Road in 1998, and it was Christmas then too – you can see the prickly Chrimbo tree and the star decorations, and all the presents freshly unwrapped on the burgundy carpet. The Photo’s starting to get dog-eared, but you can still make out Alan sat there with sideburns on the sofa and his ex-wife Barbara, and their one and only daughter Tiny Tina perched on his corduroy knee. Tina was only two years old there, back before Alan and Babs got the divorce, back before Barbara got custody over Tina and told Alan never to go near her or the kid ever again. It was only recently Alan realised Tiny Tina was a pupil at Corpus Christi – by chance one September morning he was on his way to the barber’s at Ormesby shops, and he recognised those gorgeous goldilocks a mile off. What joy it was finally to see her again, after all those years! But horrible as well to think she doesn’t even know who he is, and that he scares her, and that Corpus Christi Carol won’t let him come back to the school gates and see her any more. Sniffing again, Alan Blunt puts back The Photo and plods back through to the lounge. Hello, Mr Wong; still there are we? Shuddering, Alan feels absolutely shit and he wishes he hadn’t fucked up his life so spectacularly. It’s almost laughable, how horrific things have ended up. Standing stock-still on the itchy ground, Alan wonders if he could squeeze Mr Wong into the refrigerator. He shrugs, shaking his head. Better still, he wonders if he could squeeze himself out of the living-room window, and sadly he starts to clamber on top of the flaky white windowsill. He unlocks the window handles, slides them outward and open, then gently pushes his head and shoulders through the tight gap. For safety reasons the windows don’t open out very far, but if you put your mind to it you can definitely throw yourself out of one. Alan Blunt puts his head to the breeze. It’s chilly out there. He looks down at all the tree circles and ribbony pavements and matchbox houses, and it seems a hell of a long way down. Alan’s stomach turns over, imagining the bloody crunch of his body smashing to bits on the street. For a second he thinks about that great Chrimbo film It’s a Wonderful Life, and he wonders if he really does want to kill himself or not. But, unlike Jimmy Stewart, who had lots of lovely kids in that film and a stunning wife, Alan’s just got a Toshiba telly and a battered old couch and a corpse for company. Squeezing himself a bit further through the window, Alan glances back into the flat. It’s not a wonderful life. With no more Alan Blunt, Tiny Tina won’t be so scared going to school any more, and Corpus Christi Carol’s job will be much easier and perhaps she’ll be able to teach Tina better, and Barbara won’t have to go through the hell and rigmarole of launching a restraining order against her former husband, and Alan himself won’t have to go through the horrible ordeal of losing his flat and his po
ssessions, landing a life sentence in jail for a murder he committed when pissed, and never talk to anybody ever again anyway. So, weeping hailstones, Alan clambers unsteadily out of the tower, takes a glance at the town spread out before him, then drops himself from the ledge with one last push of courage and devastation. There’s almost a weird rush of ecstasy as he flies through the air, and there might even be a glimpse of Alan’s falling, flailing body as he whizzes past 5E’s bedroom window, but Johnnie’s too busy giving Ellen the ride of her life to notice. The two of them moan with crazed pleasure, Johnnie doing swirly deep strokes with his knob rather than horrible pornographic blam-blam-BLAMs. They writhe about on top of the bed covers, changing into different positions like taking it in turns to ride on top of a beautiful horse. Johnnie smiles to himself, Ellen sliding herself into the doggy position, and he strokes his fingers down her back and hips as he strokes his willy up and down inside her fanny. He feels like a character in The Joy of Sex. He tries to remember all the subtle tips and techniques from ‘Un Hommage de Monsieur Condom, 2005’, but when it comes down to it all he has to remember is to enjoy himself, and remain calm, and he breathes blissfully in time with the sexual intercoursing. For the first time since he’s been shagging Ellen, he’s not worried about spurting early, drying up, getting a floppy dangle-on, hurting his girlfriend, or hurting himself. He doesn’t have to watch the door any more or watch his back; instead he just watches Ellen’s back as the two of them squeak the springs of the mattress. ‘Bang bang bang,’ the bedhead says against the wall – it’s enough to drive the neighbours insane. Changing into spoons (the most underrated of all the sex positions), Ellen shuts her eyes in heavenly flutters as she guides Johnnie up her hole again. She’s amazed by Johnnie’s sudden expertise in bed – rather than being skewered on a stick and shot to death, it’s like she’s sliding up and down a six-inch rainbow. Or maybe it’s just that Johnnie’s got money now that turns her on so much. She eeeeees with glee. Her fanny’s absolutely soaking, and she groans as Johnnie reaches for it with his fingers. For five minutes he rips off Bobby and Georgie’s sex vid, searching out Ellen’s clit and rubbing it round-round-round like they do 22 mins 46 secs into the film. Johnnie carries on thrusting, and concentrating so hard on twirling Ellen’s little joystick helps him from springing a leak too early. The rush is incredible, much better than ecstasy or stealing somebody’s telephone. Kissing Ellen’s neck, he continues getting her off with his fingers, and he feels the earth rumble as she starts writhing like an epilepsy victim, moaning very seriously. After half a minute of gyrating, Ellen starts to convulse and she has a great orchestral orgasm, kicking her legs and squawking like a cockatoo. At first Johnnie’s not sure what she’s doing, then slowly he begins to smile and two seconds later he’s shutting his eyes and squirting hot white sperm into Ellen’s belly. The two of them roll off each other giggling and wheezing. ‘Wowee,’ Ellen breathes, a wonderful pink grin felt-tipped across her face. She gives Johnnie a hug and kisses him on the lips, and she thanks the lord she’s got the most bestest boyfriend in the world. Blinking sweaty blinks, Johnnie grins back at her. He feels proud of himself, and slightly surprised how easy it is to get a girl off and how incredibly wrong he’s been trying to do it in the past. It’s dusk and the room feels frosty now without all the shagging in it, so Johnnie and Ellen jump under the duvet and continue the kissing and smiling down there. They both say ‘I love you,’ then they laugh for saying it at the same time. Ellen snakes an arm out of the bed, pulling a few tissues out of the Kleenex tub to mop up Johnnie’s slime from inside her. Johnnie manages not to lose his rag over them this time. Panting, Ellen tries to slam-dunk the tissues into the waste basket but misses, then she turns back round in the bed and swings her arms round Johnnie and double-knots them. It feels so perfect and gorgeous to be just lingering amongst the bed covers, not like the old days after an awkward fuck where one of them would have to leave the room or fall straight asleep to avoid an argument. Getting her breath back, Ellen can’t believe how brilliant her relationship’s just got. She does feel awful about shagging Angelo and lying about it to Johnnie, but that’s all history now; back then Johnnie wasn’t half the man he is now. She bites into the duvet cover, absolutely ecstatic. There’s no reason to cheat on him ever again – that sex was womb-blowing! She hugs Johnnie round the neck, then the two of them just lie there kissing and staring and breathing on each other. ‘Let’s do it again!’ Ellen suddenly yelps, and they both fall about the double mattress in fits of laughter. Meanwhile, Alan Blunt the Cunt carries on falling falling falling off the tower block. After that initial burst of excitement and panic, Alan enters a new phase: absolutely shitting his pants. He braces himself for the inevitable smash of bones and brains and guts splashing across the tarmac and his skull getting crushed. Screams and tears are all traffic-jammed in his throat. He starts to slip out of his woolly brown cardigan, and there might even be a glimpse of Alan’s falling, flailing body as he whizzes past 4E’s living-room window, but Bobby the Artist’s too busy making a salad in the kitchen with Georgie to notice. Weirdly, Bobby and Georgie can’t help giggling and enjoying themselves, chopping up lettuce leaves and grinding black pepper and pouring on Caesar dressing (but not too much, mind you). Georgie’s been eating incredibly healthy, and somehow she’s got Bobby hooked on it too. Salad seems to keep the monsters away. Bobby watches his girlfriend tossing the leaves in a Greek-goddess outfit, grinning to himself. She’s finally dressing up for him again. Georgie sprinkles on a bit more dressing, then twirls round and gives him a great big smooch, asking him softly, ‘So you’re feeling better now then, honey?’ Bobby the Artist nods silently, showing his dimples. He wishes he could tell Georgie all the terrible things that have been happening to him, but he doesn’t want to depress her. Georgie’s just relieved it all seems to be over for him, whatever it was. Grabbing his skinny biceps, she plants a big snog on the Artist’s lips, then spins him a bit too fiercely in the miniature kitchen. Whizzing off in different directions, Georgie has to steady herself on the edge of the breakfast bar. She pulls a stretch of clingfilm over the Caesar salad, then glances at Bobby and speaks a bit slower, ‘Er, I’ve got something to tell you, by the way, Bobby.’ Georgie’s breathing gets a bit staggered. She’s been keeping a little secret from him for the past few months, and she’s been desperate to get it off her chest but – until now – Bobby never seemed capable of listening. Today, the Artist looks at her with a deadly serious white face, ears open. ‘Maybe we’d best go in the living room,’ Georgie says, and the two of them trundle nervously into the lounge and park themselves on the two sofa arms. She hopes to God it doesn’t split them up. She takes two lungfuls of air and flicks her dark bob behind one ear. Holding his clean hands, Georgie asks Bobby if he remembers the last time they had sex (about two and a half months ago), which was a bit rampant after Bobby got back from London and ate some speed and Georgie ate some sweets. It was great sex, but Georgie had a weird feeling that night that Mr Condom had been sick in her tummy, and when she woke the next morning she felt a little bit queasy herself. She rummaged through the rubbish bin, but she couldn’t find Mr Condom anywhere. She decided to forget about it. But three or four weeks later she didn’t get her period, and she went to Boots for a pregnancy test and lo and behold she’s got a baby inside her. It turns out Mr Condom must’ve split while they were having sex, and Mr Sperm must’ve kissed Mrs Egg in Georgie’s womb. It’s weird because for a month or so Georgie’s been getting heavier and heavier, and it never occurred to her it could be a baby. All hunched on the sofa, Bobby the Artist’s jaw flops open and his eyes fall out. Georgie says she’s not even sure if she wants to keep it or not (although secretly she definitely does), and she strokes Bobby’s hand and adds, ‘I mean, there’s no need to worry. I can get an abortion and that …’ Bobby the Artist mumbles two empty speech marks. At first his eyes are slightly glazed with terror, but then he shuts his lids and imagines a baby in a nappy gargling happily, and really
a little person isn’t that scary at all. He’s seen worse things in his life. The beaming grin on his face lets Georgie know he’s okay, then suddenly Bobby’s off scuttling round the flat in absolute delight. Big hefty tears start jumping out of his diving-board eyes. He gives Georgie a gigantic squeeze, but then he eases off, not wanting to squash the little one. He’s totally buzzing, and Georgie can’t help chasing him round the carpet, showing off all her teeth. Eventually they dive on top of each other, giggling hysterically. ‘That’s mint news!’ Bobby the Artist yells. ‘I mean, it can’t be that hard looking after a kid, can it?’ Laughing, Georgie clutches her stomach, then replies, ‘Well, it hasn’t been that hard so far …’ Rolling over, Bobby gives her a big cheesy grin and kisses her earhole. Then, he puts his head against her belly, listening for kicks and gurgles. ‘Maybe we could move out of this place,’ he suggests, coming up for air. ‘I mean, we’ll need extra room for the baby and that … We might have to get that fucking money back off Johnnie, though …’ Bobby has a nervous twitch. Georgie shrugs, smiling at her boyfriend being all funny and over the top, although she likes the idea of getting a new place together and getting back on planet Earth again. Breathing deeply, she rubs Bobby’s knee, absolutely over the moon that he wants to keep the baby. No more need to feel guilty having that little tadpole in there! Sniffing and snortling, Bobby matches his palms up with Georgie’s, then gives the Greek goddess a big kiss and a cuddle. ‘It’s dead exciting!’ he yelps, panting like a lunatic. Georgie sniggers, stroking Bobby’s kneecaps and she whispers, ‘I know!’ They kiss again, then for a minute there’s a special bit of hush between them, and Georgie bites her chewy pink lip. She blinks, wiping her streaming nose on her sleeve, then adds softly, ‘I might even have a wedding dress in the cupboard, you know!’ Meanwhile, Alan Blunt the Cunt carries on falling falling falling off the tower block, eyes full of tears like swelled-up clouds, and he starts really gaining speed and then he
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