by Skuse, C. J.
Mac’s eyebrows leap up into his forehead. “Well I won’t say it.”
“I know, I know, you did warn me,” I sigh, turning to page six to read the rest of the article, my eyes pinging from one side to the other as I try and take it all in.
FEARS are growing for the lead singer of one of America’s most popular rock bands, who has not been seen for two days.
Jackson James Gatlin, who fronts popular Chicago rock outfit The Regulators, was last seen backstage at the band’s gig at Motorpoint Cardiff Arena on 23 March. Since then his bandmates have been unable to contact him.
The 27-year-old, who has a history of depression, left no note and did not tell anyone who saw him that night where he was going.
The band’s manager, Frank Grohman, said: “I remember seeing Jackson backstage just before the encore. His mood was level, he gave me no cause for concern. He was there one minute, and then he was gone. He’s never done anything like this before. It’s totally out of character.”
Mr. Grohman added: “There’s a lot of care and love for Jackson from friends and fans and we all hope we see him soon.”
Gatlin has not answered any messages left on his voice mail since he disappeared, and his phone no longer functions. He is described as slim, 5 foot 8 inches tall, with dark brown shaggy hair. He has a tattoo of a flaming rose on his upper left arm, symbolic of the band’s first album cover, and was last seen wearing a white straitjacket and jeans, part of his onstage costume persona, the Madman.
Anyone with information about Mr. Gatlin’s whereabouts is being asked to call the missing-persons helpline: 0500 . . . .
“Whoa,” I breathe out, folding up the paper.
Mac shuffles up and I sit down next to him. “You need to explain to Jackson that people are worried about him and hopefully we can just take him somewhere or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or we can ring that helpline number and say he just turned up in your garage in a state and you don’t know how he got there.”
I shake my head. “I’m not just going to dump him. I brought him here. And he says he doesn’t want to go back. There must be a good reason.”
“He’s probably just having a strop cos he’s sick of touring. A couple of days away and he’ll realize he has to go back. He can’t live in your garage forever, can he?”
I bite my bottom lip hard. “He says he wants to stay there.”
“Bit of cold turkey and he’ll be back to some semblance of self. Then we can talk to him.”
“Cold turkey?”
Mac uncrosses his fishnetted legs and recrosses them the other way. “Yeah. When junkies come off drugs. Let him detox for a few days. Keep him out of the limelight. Might do him a world of good. Maybe then he’ll stop with the demands.”
I’m doing that middle-distance staring thing. Mac pokes me in the side and I jolt out of it. “I don’t know. I’m out of my depth, Mac. I need you.” Mac says nothing, completely straight-faced, for which I’m quietly grateful. “Will you help me?”
There’s a small but definite twinkle in Mac’s eye, which could be the reflection from the mirror ball, but he nods faintly. “I’m involved now, aren’t I? As usual, you’ve sucked me in.”
I throw my arms around him and squeeze him so hard. “Oh thank you, thank you. It’s been hell without you there. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“We haven’t had a Jody drama for a while, have we, Presh?” Mac smiles so his cheeks dimple and something blooms in my chest. I’ve been dying to see that smile for days. “What was the last little Jody drama we had?”
“When I poured Sunny Delight over my head and got chased through the park by wasps?”
“No, there was one after that, wasn’t there?”
“When I brought that injured rabbit home?”
“No, Christmas . . .”
“Oh yeah. Christmas.” And that was all we needed to say. You only need to know three things — I was going through my die-hard vegetarian phase, Mum wanted to pick a fresh turkey from a local farm, and the police had to close the road in both directions.
“Do you want to come and see a bit of the rehearsal? We’re only going through my songs today so they won’t mind. You can sit in the stalls. Just don’t laugh. Well, at the funny bits you can. But don’t laugh at Mrs. Brooks on the piano, OK?” He gets up, tottering slightly on his heels.
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
I’d forgotten how brilliant Mac is. I’m barely noticing Mrs. Brooks at the piano and her frantic arms. Mac owns that stage. Even without makeup, just a faded Bath rugby shirt, he is Frank-N-Furter. Unembarrassed, pouting, oozing confidence, strutting from one side of the stage to the other like a peacock, singing:
“Don’t get strung out by the way I look,
Don’t judge a book by its cover,
I’m not much of a man by the light of day,
But by night I’m one hell of a lover,
I’m just a sweet transvestite,
from transsexual Transylvania.”
I swell with pride. That’s my best friend — his voice as clear and as pitch-perfect as a professional’s. His legs long and lean and graceful. His hands wide and expressive. I cannot wait to see the show. I’m going to be in the front and I’m going to clap the loudest. For a second I forget all about my own problems and just watch him. Then I remember. The punch of dread meets my stomach. I get up and signal to Mac just as they start running through “Don’t Dream It, Be It.” He gives me the ten-minute sign.
Once Mac’s changed, we head back via the newsstand and Mac buys Jackson’s cigarettes and a lighter.
“You owe me,” he says as he hands me the shopping bag outside.
“I know, I know,” I say. Then we head back to my house. I drag my feet the whole way. I know what’s coming. As soon as Mac opens the garage door, a book flies past him, a hairsbreadth from his face.
I slam the door and lock it. “That’s what I’ve had for the past two days.”
Mac bends down to pry open the cat flap. “Jackson? It’s Mac.”
“FUCK OFF!” the beast shouts back. Something hits the wall inside.
“We’re not going to hurt you, Jackson, OK? Can we come in?”
“No!” The kick drum flies against the door.
Mac turns to me. “Blimey.”
“See what I mean? One minute he’s OK, or at least he’s not throwing things, he’s just crying or something, and next he’s like this. If I didn’t know better I’d say he had PMS.”
“Maybe he has,” Mac suggests.
“What if he’s always like this, Mac? What if this is Jackson?”
Mac shakes his head. “No. This is withdrawal.” The two drumsticks pelt the door in turn.
“Withdrawal from what?”
“Whatever he’s on. He’s two days into full-on cold turkey. Has he been shaking and stuff?”
“Yeah, a bit. When I’ve dared to go that near.” Thud. I can see Jackson through the window, throwing books about, bawling and swearing. But there’s barely a sound to be heard outside, thanks to the soundproofing.
Mac kneels down and peers through the cat flap. “Yeah, he’s well into it. This is the worst bit. We’re going to have to see him through it. It’s not like this is going to be a gradual thing, either. We’ve nothing to help lessen the effects. He’s just going to have to deal with it.”
“How do you know so much about drugs?” I ask him.
“NAOS. Half the cast are former drug addicts from the halfway house in town.”
I’m not sure at all. This is so way beyond the beyondest of the beyond. “This could be dangerous, making him go cold turkey.”
“I know. It’s going to be a total shock to his system, so we’ll have to keep a close eye on him. But he can’t get any worse, that’s the good news. Right, we need to Google it and find out exactly what to do. Must be a step-by-step guide on how to detox a junkie on there somewhere. It would help if we knew what he wa
s on. Has he asked for anything drug-sounding? His stuff, his gear, Charlie, H, spliffs, meth, whiz?” Thud.
“No . . .”
“. . . shit, blow, ganja, weed, dope, speed, rocks?”
“No, nothing. How can you get high off rocks? Do you lick them or something?”
“Not concrete rocks, Jode, rocks of cocaine. What about snow, smack, crack, crank, PCP, LSD? Has he asked for any of them? Anything that could sound like a type of drug?”
“No, I don’t think so. I would have remembered. He’s got this key around his neck that he’s really presh about. Maybe it unlocks a box of drugs somewhere?”
Mac looks at me like I’ve just poked my tongue into his eye. He dips his head and I can tell he’s smiling. Laughing at me.
“OK, maybe not. The only thing he keeps asking for are blackberries.” Thud.
“Blackberries?” says Mac. “As in, more than one?”
“Yeah. I thought he meant fruit, but I bought him some and he knocked them all over the floor.”
“Maybe he meant the phone, but who carries around two BlackBerrys?”
I shrug. “Jackson, I suppose.”
“No, I mean, maybe they’re not phones. Maybe the blackberries are what he’s taking. Maybe that’s his name for them, the pills.”
We go up to my computer and Mac makes himself comfortable on my chair. I stand behind him and drape my arms around his neck. Mac knows a little about a lot of things, which is just as well cos I know nothing about a lot more. And what he doesn’t know he can find out in seconds with a fast broadband connection. His hand darts about on top of the mouse like an epileptic spider. He types “blackberry + drug” into Google.
The first result that comes up is an American medical website called Proclicyanide Sulphate — The Facts. And then there’s all this science about what it is. I lean in, resting my chin on Mac’s shoulder, as he reads aloud.
“‘Proclicyanide sulphate tablets,’” he doesn’t even stutter, “‘or “red berries” as they are commonly known due to their red appearance, are recreational drugs. Their purpose is to promote energy and alertness, sometimes even temporary mania.’ Right, so basically they’re uppers. He’s been taking them to give him an onstage high.”
“But he asked for black berries, not red berries.”
“I’m getting to that bit,” he says, scrolling down the screen a bit further. “‘Most users have to take effigysium sulphate tablets, or “black berries,” to counteract the effects of the proclicyanide. These are used to bring one back to a version of calm, though in regular users this can be short-lived due to the craving for the former.’ He must take the black berries to bring him down, only . . .”
“. . . he doesn’t have any black berries cos they went over the bridge with his clothes.”
“Exactly. Look, ‘side effects from red berries can range from violent childish mood swings, chronic inertia, agoraphobia, paranoia, heart palpitations, and even death in some extreme cases.’”
“Oh my God, Mac. What if he dies, what if he dies in my garage?”
“He’s not going to die, is he? He’s not taking them anymore. This is just the comedown. It’s a bad comedown but it’s still a comedown. He’s shaking it all out of his system.” He gives me a lingering frown. “Where exactly is he shaking it all out, by the way?”
“Everywhere.”
“Grim. Well, as long as he’s in that garage, he’s safe, anyway.”
“OK,” I say. “What about his cigarettes?” I say, holding up the shopping bag.
“Yeah, that might take the edge off a bit,” he says, taking the bag. I follow him back downstairs to the garage, where he pulls out one of the Marlboros and a lighter. He lights it, sucks in the smoke, and coughs it out. “Ugh.” Then he bends down and tucks it through the cat-flap door, saying, “Jackson, want a smoke? Here, kitty, kitty.” Then we stand well back.
Within seconds, the cigarette disappears and the flap snaps shut.
“Right. Keep an eye on him, keep his fluids up, and try and clean up after him. And if he behaves and he talks to you respectfully, he can have a smoke as a treat.”
“OK,” I say. I keep saying OK, like I know what he’s talking about. Like I even know what’s happening, what I’m doing, where this is going to lead. Nothing’s OK, though. Nothing has ever been further from O and K in its entire life.
Later, when the beast is asleep, we sneak into the drum room to attempt a cleanup. The drum kit lies in pieces, the skin torn on each drum, the sticks snapped. The beast himself lies legs akimbo on my nice duck-feather cushions, mouth wide open, dead to the world. Mac’s aproned and gloved and wearing a face mask so he doesn’t have to smell anything. He just about manages to scrape fruit slush from the walls before he has to run out and gag in the fresh air. He’s such an actor.
“I’ll stick the cushion covers in the wash, put fresh ones on,” I whisper. Mac nods, peeling wet pages of an Argos catalog from the walls. But as I’m trying to pry the cushion out from under Jackson’s head, I notice he doesn’t look so good. I put my hand to his neck.
“Oh my God. I can’t feel his pulse.”
“What?” says Mac, running over to me. “No, he can’t be . . . no, no, no . . .”
“I think he’s dead. He doesn’t have a pulse,” I say, feeling frantically along his wrist.
Mac lifts Jackson’s arm and releases his grip. The arm drops to the floor with a little thud. He is dead. He is heavy and pale and pulseless and dead.
And then he coughs.
“Jesus Christ.” We both jump back as though zapped with a cattle prod. Jackson rolls onto his other side and goes back into his deep, corpselike sleep.
“I thought you said he didn’t have a pulse?!” Mac screeches at me.
“I couldn’t feel one!” I say defensively. “You check him if you don’t believe me.”
“No, it’s OK,” he pants theatrically. “I think. I’m just going to . . . lie here and . . . have heart failure.” He slumps against one of the upturned boxes.
My hand is clutching a fistful of T-shirt. “So . . . that’ll be the chronic inertia, I s’pose.”
I get to my feet and tiptoe over to Jackson again, crouching down to inspect his neck. “He definitely doesn’t have a pulse, Mac. Look, come and feel.”
Mac eventually gets up and joins me by Jackson’s head, somewhat nervous. “Oh for God’s sake, you don’t feel for a pulse there! I thought you were trained in first aid! You’re touching his chin, the pulse is in his neck, like this.” He puts two fingers against his Adam’s apple. He fumbles around a bit. “Hang on.”
“See, see what I mean? Maybe some people don’t have them in their necks?”
Mac’s bewildered. “It amazes me you found the right way out of the womb.” He has a feel around Jackson’s neck. “No, there it is,” he says as his two fingers settle on a spot just under Jackson’s jawline.
I feel for myself, still not convinced. This chronic inertia side effect should be relabeled the “looks dead” stage. My fingers land on a little thumping spot deep inside his neck.
“Right, so he’s not dead,” sighs Mac, putting his mask back on. “God, he really stinks, Jode.”
I can’t deny it anymore, not that I’ve been trying to deny it, really. I’ve just been breathing through my mouth. He’s been peeing in the corner, too, rather than using the downstairs loo as offered. His pants, my grandad’s sweatpants, reek like a festering stable.
“Well . . . if he’s not going to wake up,” I tell Mac, “we could give him a bath.”
“Can’t you give him a squirt of Febreze or just keep changing his clothes?” Mac suggests.
“He’ll still smell like a turd, just a turd wrapped in a clean T-shirt. Let’s give him a bath.” Jackson’s mouth falls open and he starts snoring. I’ve heard lions roaring quieter, and OMG the breath! “I could clean his teeth, too.”
Mac frowns, probably searching for a reason not to do this. “What if he wakes up when we’re
washing him? He’ll go skitz.”
I shrug. “At least his breath won’t smell so badly when he’s shouting.”
“All right, if we can get him up the stairs, you can give him a bath. I’ll help you get him up there but I ain’t washing his crannies. I’m not going downtown.”
I smile as I take Jackson under his arms, then Mac gets an attack of the guilts and tells me to take his legs cos they weigh less, while he takes Jackson under his arms. Jackson’s not that heavy, but we both make a big deal of getting him out of the drum room, across the garden, and inside the kitchen. We’re standing in the hallway, right next to the staircase, when a shadow darkens the glass in the front door. Someone’s standing on our doorstep. I hear a jingle. A key in the lock. Mum. But it’s only one o’clock, what the hell is she doing home in the middle of the day? And why am I worrying about why she’s come home in the middle of the day? Point is, she is home in the middle of the day and we are carrying a very famous, unconscious, missing rock star who really shouldn’t be in our hallway stinking of piss!
“In here!” I say quickly, nodding toward the coat closet under the stairs and I pull the door open with my elbow and Mac folds Jackson into me so he’s doubled up, and we bundle him clumsily into the closet and shut the door.
“Mac, mask!” I whisper, and just as Mum steps through the door, he rips off both his plastic apron and mask and throws them both in the closet and shuts it.
Mum comes in, all of a bluster, loaded down with groceries. Mac stands against the closet door. I stand next to him, trying to look trustworthy. “Hi,” I smile.
“Take these will you, Jode,” she says. “Oh hi, Mackenzie. Here.” She hands Mac a bag, too. He just stands there with it. She looks at him but he smiles sweetly. He reminds me of Jackson when he fake smiles. In most of the pictures I have of Jackson smiling he is doing that exact same smile. It doesn’t look fake, but it is fake, and only an expert in fake smiles would know. Mum doesn’t know. She trusts Mac, on the whole, as he’s so much more mature than I am, but he’s acting so sketchy at this moment I’m worried he’s going to give the game away. Some bloody game.