Bad Dreams (continued)
Chapter 5 continued
It was a ghastly, mortifying sight that
had the effect of turning me into a statue. I literally froze,
unable to drag my eyes away from Little Joe's unnaturally still
body. Thankfully, a miracle was at hand in the form of the
other two people with me -- Jamie, a rock-climbing he-man with
a certificate in First Aid, and his girlfriend, Doreen, a
medical student at Charing Cross hospital. He may have been
down to his last throw of the dice but Little Joe's luck hadn't
quite run out yet.
Calmly, methodically, they set about their
work. Jamie took the needle from the arm and turned him over
onto his back. Doreen felt for his pulse (“Weak but still
there,” she declared); checked his eyes (“Heavily
dilated”); then tilted his head back, pinched his
nostrils with her fingers and began giving him mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation.
Nothing happened, he wasn't responding. I
thought: he's not gonna make it. But they kept trying; first
Doreen, then when she tired Jamie would take over. They kept at
it for five minutes… ten minutes… but still he
wasn't responding. Fifteen minutes… twenty minutes…
he wasn't going to make it.
“Maybe we should call an
ambulance,” I said.
“No,” snapped Jamie, red-faced
from all the huffing and puffing. “Not yet.”
He threw back his head, took one last,
enormous gulp of air, then fastened his mouth to Joe's and blew
hard down his throat.
Joe's chest immediately began to heave.
Then he coughed and gasped for air. Little Joe was breathing!
Jamie had done it! We had done it!
Unexpected tears came to my eyes. I didn't
know why; they just came. It was embarrassing.
“No time for that,” Jamie
commanded, in his element now. “Get the kettle on. We
need coffee. Black. With lots of sugar. Come on!”
I managed to stop sniffling and move
myself towards the kitchen. As I filled the kettle I noticed my
hands were shaking. I put the kettle on and tried to smoke a
cigarette while I waited for it to boil. Stupid thing to do,
crying. What for? The answer came back immediately: for me. I
was crying for me. How that worked I didn't know but as soon as
it came to me I knew it was true. I quickly banished the
thought.
I could hear them in the next room,
shouting at him, slapping his face, trying to bring him round.
The slaps were loud and made me wince. When I came back in with
the coffee they had lifted him off the floor and were standing
either side of him, propping him up, trying to walk him round
the room. But he was still gone and his long, senseless legs
dragged along the floor beneath him as lifeless as a doll's.
I set the coffee down on the table and got
out of there. I was going to start crying again and I didn't
want them to see me…
Chapter 6
What's worse, though -- booze or drugs?
That's like asking: what will kill you quicker -- tooth or
claw? Different roads, same destination; stopping off -- waking
up suddenly -- at many of the same sorts of places, interesting
and otherwise.
I do know which is hardest to control,
though: booze. Booze is the most insidious of drugs; the bad
daddy of them all. Not just because it's legal, not just
because it's considered unsocial not to drink, but because you
don't see it coming. Not even when you start having blackouts.
An occasional booze blackout is still something to be laughed
at for most people. A great story to tell at work the next day.
The night I got slaughtered and took all my clothes off and
threw up over that policeman! Remember? Ha, ha, ha! Actually,
no. Ha, ha, ha, ha!
… it was 1984 and I awoke to find
myself sitting there at my desk in the Kerrang! office feeling
ill. I hadn't technically been unconscious until that moment
but that was the first time that day that I actually woke up:
when I realised with a shock that there was something wrong
with me. I was trying to type but my hands were shaking so bad
they kept missing the keys. It was so bad I wondered when
people would start to notice and say something. Then someone
brought me a cup of tea and when I tried to lift the cup I
spilled it everywhere. I became horribly aware of the sweat
dripping from my nose and a terrible scraping feeling inside my
guts, like someone trying to pull a hook from me. I knew I was
hung-over, that was normal. But this was something else, I
could tell.
Suddenly, without any conscious thought on
my part, my body simply took over from my brain and I found
myself propelled out of my chair and out the door towards the
street. We were in Covent Garden and there were two pubs within
50 yards of us. I went straight to the nearest one and made my
way as inconspicuously as I could to the bar. I had less than
two quid in my pocket -- enough for a Mortodello and cheese
sandwich at lunchtime from the posh Italian on the corner. Now
the Mortodello would have to wait.
The barman wandered over, Australian,
tanned, talkative, here for the beer, all that.
“W-w-whiskey,” I said, my
teeth chattering. “Da-double.”
He must have thought I was brain-damaged
or something because he started speaking very slowly and
smiling very kindly, like helping an old lady across the road.
“And-would-you-like-ice-in-that-sir?”
he intoned.
“N-no,” I stammered.
He looked at me pityingly then went to
fetch the drink. He took his time, finding me a nice clean
glass and making a big deal of showing me the two shots sliding
into it from the optics. I stood there sweating like a fiend,
nodding, playing along. Anything for that drink.
He returned and carefully set down the
glass. I had already maneuvered the coins from my pocket onto
the bar so he wouldn't have to see me struggling. By now I was
almost bent over double; my stomach had begun to cramp and I
knew that if I farted I would follow through dramatically. He
picked up the money and went away again.
Finally, after several more painfully
drawn-out minutes while he queued at the busy till, he returned
with the change, then went away at last and left me to it. He
had gone to say something before he left, some kind word of
encouragement no doubt, but when he had seen my face he had
changed his mind.
I waited a few more moments before
attempting to lift the glass. I knew I only had one go at it
and that I dare not spill a drop. Nevertheless, my first
attempt nearly ended in disaster as I tried the old
two-hands-at-once method. It just made the glass quake more and
I didn't dare attempt lift-off.
I thought about it. I had it. I took my
left hand and placed it firmly on my right wrist, to hold it
steady against the bar. Then I carefully slid my right hand
towards the glass. That was better. My right hand was still
trembling but I was able to get a good enough grip on the glass
to get it about six inches off the bar. That's all you need for
semi-respectability. Then I bowed my head towards the glass.
Once I had it in my teeth I knew it was going to be all right.
I jolted back my head and got it all down in one, apart from
the small bit I spilt down my chin, but I always do that.
I immediately began to feel better. Within
seconds my hands had stopped shaking and the stomach cramps
were gone. I was back to normal… strolling back to the
office, lighting a cigarette, noticing girls' legs and how
bright the spring sun was… looking forward to the
lunchtime session back at the pub…someone would always
buy you a pint… then getting back to my desk and settling
down to write, hands and head now much steadier, thank
you… problem solved.
Chapter 7
Funny, sad, neither, both… sometimes
you don't know what it is. That's when you really get the
horrors. Waking up in your own bed for a change, then going to
the mirror in the bathroom and seeing the black eye, the cuts
and bruises. Realising your watch has gone; your rings, your
wallet… not funny, not sad. Not acceptable on any level.
Or waking up to the phone ringing,
dragging your disbelieving bones out of bed to answer it,
confused and distraught… Then to pick it up and be told
you have Bryan Adams on the line -- an unknown new
singer-songwriter you'd foolishly agreed to interview after the
record company bird had got you plastered over lunch the other
day. Okay… these things happened. Except that on this
occasion, just to twist the knife, the interview wasn't
supposed to be until the next day and they'd woken me for
nothing. Der!
I yawned and scratched my arse. It was
itchy and I really had to dig in. I wondered vaguely when I'd
last had a shower. “But you're not supposed to call until
tomorrow,” I said, holding my fingers up to my nose.
Phewee! Stink-er!
“No,” said the very
together-sounding lady on the other end, “I have it in
front of me here -- Tuesday, November 24, at 3.00pm London
time.”
I wasn't awake enough yet to be fully
irritated. I was still just confused. Yes, the interview was
for 3.00pm on Tuesday -- but that was tomorrow. The silly cow
had obviously got her days wrong. What was wrong with record
company people? Why were they all such morons?
“Yes, but today is the 24th,”
she had insisted, “and I have Bryan waiting to speak with
you on the line from Canada. Can I put him through?”
Now I was awake. “But that's
tomorrow! Can you hear me? Too-morr-row!”
“But…”
“No buts,” I said. This joke
wasn't funny anymore. “Call me tomorrow as arranged and
I'll be very pleased to speak to Ryan. But right now I'm very
busy, okay?”
“But…”
“Tomorrow!” I shouted and
slammed down the phone. I unplugged the chord from the wall
then went to the bathroom and had a good long stinging piss.
Then I went back to bed. I got under the sheets still
muttering. Fucking people, can't even get their days right, and
they wonder why we take the piss out of Americans…
I dozed for another half-hour or so but I
couldn't get back to the deep blissful stuff I'd been enjoying
until the phone rang. It was still on my mind, the Adam Brian
thing. I just couldn't believe people could be so stupid, so
thoughtless.
I got up and wandered over to the front
door where the mail and newspapers were piled up. I hadn't got
to the stage of thinking about what I'd done the night before
yet, I was just yawning and padding around, still
half-mullered.
I put the kettle on and had a look at the
newspaper. The Diane Adams thing was still lurking in my
agitated mind and I couldn't resist a glance at the date at the
top of the page; not so much to confirm the facts as to
underline the sheer stupidity of the situation. How did these
people even get jobs? continue reading
