“In the beginning, coke makes you love yourself. For me, that was a whole other mind fuck. Plus, it gives you a rush of such power. It shrinks the supply of blood to the eyes and makes you bright-eyed. I once saw Mick Houghton interviewed.”
I stood up, could already feel the booze in my legs, got the bottle, poured another, offered it to Kirsten. She said,
“No, I’m good. Who’s Mick Houghton?”
“He was PR to Echo and the Bunnymen, Julian Cope, Elastica.”
She gave me a look of profound disbelief, went,
“How do you know this stuff?”
“Yeah, scares me, too.”
“It should.”
“Anyway, he said, ‘Coke’s worse than heroin. Heroin kills you whereas coke destroys you. People can kick smack before it kills them so that their careers might at least remain intact. You can’t say that about coke.’ ”
She rose from the bed, moved to pick up the cellophane, said,
“You won’t be needing this then?”
“No.”
The phone rang. I picked up, said,
“Yeah?”
“Jack, it’s Cathy.”
Instantly, guilt consumed me, for my behaviour towards Jeff. I hoped the whiskey didn’t sound in my voice. I said,
“Cathy.”
“I got the information you wanted.”
“That’s great... I’ll pay you, of course.”
“I don’t think so.”
The tone of her voice was flat, cold. I said,
“I was a little out of line earlier.”
“So what else is new, Jack?”
“I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother. I left the envelope with Mrs Bailey.”
Click.
Kirsten said,
“Romantic spat?”
“Not exactly.”
She moved to the door, said,
“I hate to drink and run but... ”
“You’re going?”
“What were you expecting? Drinks and a fast fuck.”
The word echoed harsh in the room. I tried to get a grip, asked,
“What did you come for?”
She feigned huge surprise, said,
“To touch base, see how your investigation was going.”
I searched for a sarcastic rejoinder, something to lash her with. Nothing came, and she said,
“Why don’t you just ask me?”
“Ask you what?”
“If I killed my husband.”
I finished my drink. Could feel it move behind my eyes, asked,
“Did you kill your husband?”
She gave a laugh of pure delight, said,
“Ah... that would be telling. Keep it in your pants, Jack.”
And she was gone.
I stood in the middle of the room, shouted,
“What was that about?”
The bottle, three quarters full, stood on the dresser. What sanity I had said,
“So, OK... you’ve had two drinks, no real damage done. We’re not talking major damage. Go to bed. In the morning, start over.”
I seriously considered all of that for a full minute, then I said,
“Fuck it.”
What I thought about was Raymond Chandler and what he once said:
How do you tell a man to go away in hard language? Scram, beat it, take off, take the air, hit the road, and so forth. All good enough. But give me the classic expression actually used by Spike O’Donnell (of the O’Donnell brothers of Chicago, the only small outfit to tell the Capone mob to go to hell and live). What he said was, Be Missing.
All I need to say about the rest of the night is... I wrote a poem.
God forgive me.
Drinking whiskey has led me down so many dark streets, exposed me to situations that were horrific and produced medieval hangovers. But in our long chequered relationship. I’d never descended to the level of poetry.
Could I remember penning it?
Course not.
The writing was all over sheets of blotched paper. Thankfully, a part of it was unreadable, simply an illegible scrawl. But the bones were there. I could recall sitting on the bed, remembering my London wedding. We’d got hitched in a registry office at Waterloo. How fitting that was.
Our nuptial night had ended in a blazing row. I’d surfaced the next morning, blitzed and alone in a cheap hotel near the Arches.
Here is the poem.
In all its feckless glory.
Wasted in Waterloo
Asked myself,
“What the hell is this?”
But I didn’t bin it. Folded it with care and put it in the introduction to Francis Thompson’s The Hound of Heaven.
Where else did it belong?
Only then did I notice my knuckles. Torn and bleeding. I hadn’t left the room. Christ, I prayed I hadn’t. My stomach was churning, as if I’d drunk battery acid. A mother of a headache, sweat leaking into my eyes, plus the almighty thirst. Went to the bathroom for water and solved one mystery. The mirror was cracked, and obviously with some force.
Heard intermittent groans and realised I was making them. Course, I’d passed out in my clothes. Boy, did they stink. Tore them off and stepped gingerly into the shower. Got it to scalding and roared like a penitent. Endured it as long as I could. My mind wasn’t thinking,
“No more drinking.”
It was already visualising a cold pint of lager, beads of moisture on the glass. Heard my door open and someone enter. My pounding heart went into overdrive. Wrapped a towel round me, looked out. Janet, the chambermaid, was looking older than Mrs Bailey but refused to retire. Now, she was standing amid the debris, shaking her head.
I said,
“Janet, it’s OK... I’ll tidy up.”
“But, Mr Taylor, what happened? You’re usually so tidy.”
I wanted to shout,
“Leave the fucking room, all right. You’re waiting for an explanation; Christ... you’re the chambermaid... Gimme a break.”
Could I afford to trample on yet another person’s feelings, especially as she was a gentle soul? Had once given me a rosary beads. Now I wanted to strangle her with them. What I said was,
“Bit of a celebration, Arsenal beat Spartak.”
She looked right at me, said,
“Ah, Mr Taylor, you’re back on the beer.”
Serious rage boiled in me but I tried,
“Just a few friends in, nothing too boisterous.”
“Says you! Look at this place.”
This was so unlike her. Normally, she wouldn’t comment on an earthquake. When you’re dying with a hangover, the whole world gets a hard on. I said,
“JANET... LEAVE IT.”
“No need to raise your voice, Mr Taylor, I’m not deaf.”