The Day Tripper, page 3
“Let’s hope so. Far too pissed for walking.” I point toward the bar and turn.
“Don’t be long, baby,” she says, wide-eyed, sincere.
I’m still for a second. It’s so alien, this feeling that nothing else in the world matters beyond this present moment, beyond her and me. I almost say it—would if the words weren’t a foreign language to me. I could so easily tell her that I love her.
LIVE FOREVER
It’s three-deep at the bar, and I get my order in seconds before they ring for time. I double up: a JD and Coke each and two beers to take with us. The lights are up and the music’s gone quiet as I weave the tray through the punters. Standing in the doorway out to the terrace, I am disorientated. There must be fifty tables outside between here and the river and it’s still packed out, darker and smokier than ever. I search the crowd but can’t see Holly.
I negotiate my way down to the water’s edge. She’s maybe ten tables away, oblivious, a ciggie poised skyward in her fingers like she’s posing for Vettriano. I smirk, enjoy my good fortune again.
“Excuse me, good gentlemen,” I say to a group of four in my path, voice cocky with booze and lust. They shuffle over, not breaking from their conversation. The resulting gap between their circle and the edge of the path isn’t wide enough—a careless elbow would send the tray of drinks into the river, possibly me with them.
“If you don’t mind, guys?” I lay a palm on the forearm of the bloke with his back to me. Their circle opens out and he turns side-on, ushering me past. “Nice one,” I say, glancing at him as I pass.
I look back at the ground. There’s a delay in my brain processing who it is I’m walking past. There’s a moment in which it seems that we’ll just carry on, pretend like we don’t know each other.
The air thickens. Time slows. I stop, a step past him. Look again. Razor-sharp short back and sides, hooded eyes, lopsided mouth. Preppy. It’s a face I catch myself imagining sometimes, never for long. A waking nightmare. Not that my imagination does it justice. Not even close, I now realize.
His recognition of me unfolds in slow motion. Perhaps like me, alcohol has dulled his synapses, delayed the inevitable shift of mode.
Blake Benfield. There have been times in the past when just hearing that name in my head has stopped me dead, left me incapable.
How long since we last ran into each other? I was sixteen—best part of four years, then. Feels so recent. Our paths crossing has always been inevitable; we grew up barely a mile apart. He spat at me that last time, called me faggot cunt. The many times before that I’d just legged it, hidden from his fury and his hatred. But you get too old to do that.
This crowded place seems so quiet now. Like there’s cotton wool stuffed in my ears. The two bottles tip over on my trembling tray, foam splattering to the ground. One rolls over the edge and shatters on the concrete. People turn.
How long have we stood here, him glaring at me, me unable to hold his stare? Saying nothing. A few seconds? Feels longer.
There’s the smell of burned-out house in my nose. The sound of his whisper in my ears that I try to drown out.
Don’t think about it. Do not think about that day.
Why do I shake? I’m a fucking grown man. Why am I shaking?
He takes a half step closer to me.
I once told him I was sorry. It was years ago—when I was still a kid. I was sorry. Does he remember?
I spin around. Where’s Holly? She must be watching this.
There’s no more delay. There is, of course, nothing for me and this bloke to say to each other. We have ventured into each other’s space, and that brings with it a remembering. And, as we always have, we must deal with that in our own way.
His knuckles graze my chin. I stumble backward and the tray falls to the ground. His swing is off, though; there is no pain. Not even surprise. We definitely have an audience now.
My response is pure instinct: palms raised, lean away. Easy now.
I don’t want to fight this man. I want to go back thirty seconds, walk a different route, have this night back for myself.
Blake closes the gap, my weakness an invitation. His second punch crashes into my ear like a swinging girder. My brain slaps side to side in my skull. Vision sways. My head boils, a cool trickle from my eardrum.
Where is Holly? Panic grips. I can’t just stand here and take this.
My eyes flit to our audience. He swings again, this time with his left. But I see it coming, dodge. He stumbles.
I drive my weight, shoulder first, into his ribs. He goes over, sprawled among the spilled drinks and shattered glass.
On all fours, he stares up at me. I’m perfectly positioned. I could kick him square in the face. End this right now. Why don’t I do it? Why can’t I bring myself to do it? I’d rather turn my back and cry than kick his head in.
He glares up at me. Why do I pity him? Why am I so uncomfortable towering over him like this? It’s like the positions we’ve always held have been reversed. The power is mine.
I let him find his feet.
He’s up and level with me again. He glares like a bloodthirsty dog, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his polo shirt. If we were alone, maybe I’d run. But with people watching, with Holly watching, that’s no option.
My punch lands perfectly. His jaws scissor against each other. For a second his head floats, eyes rolling.
I realize my error too late. I should’ve followed up when I had the chance. One punch is only enough in the movies, everyone knows that. His hands are on the collar of my shirt, cloth tearing as he holds firm. His forehead slams into the bridge of my nose like a sledgehammer. My face is suddenly and totally numb. I drop to the ground. A ruby-red stain spreads fast through the jewels of broken glass around me.
He shouts above me. Every filthy word I’ve long come to expect. Something soft disperses against my head. Spit.
The neck of the Stella bottle I dropped lies on the ground. Inches away. Blood gurgles in my mouth as I take a deep breath. I launch like a sprinter. Leading with the dagger of green glass, I’m aiming straight at his face and closing fast.
Blake backs into a table, stumbles, hands slow to cover his face. His eyes widen, abject fear. But this is no time to be derailed.
I see it too late. No time to react. One of Blake’s friends windmilling a table ashtray. The side of my skull cracks like thunder.
The ground feels like a cushion, drawing me in and bouncing me back. My vision finds enough order in time to see the sole of boot accelerating toward me, like a cartoon piano from the sky.
There is no pain. Just a sense of floating in space.
Time passes. More blows land.
The surface of the Thames billows like a black satin sheet as it rises toward me. There’s no fear. Is that Holly I can hear calling my name? It’s so distant, so hard to tell.
The river gathers me in like it’s here to take care of me.
Cool water spears my lungs like sharpened icicles. I sink forever.
A low hum builds in my ears. Lights fades to nothing.
And I sleep.
NOVEMBER 30 2010 AGE 35
These Streets
My head throbs. It doesn’t matter if I open or close my eyes, the pain worsens either way. My mouth is like dust. Joints and muscles lie seized.
Last night is a blank. I hate that. I look above me. Focusing is excruciating. The ceiling is browny cream, textured in spikes like a Christmas cake. An unshaded bulb swings in the draft, the filament shivering. It’s really cold in here.
Where the fucking hell am I?
It even hurts to think. Something usually comes back by now after a serious session, even if the details have to be filled in later.
A cough gathers in my chest and rumbles its way out. I turn on my side, hacking and wheezing. It’s all I can do not to puke. I sound ninety.
The room is small, barely twice the size of this single bed. Clothes cover the floor, black floorboards peeping through the mess here and there. I’m certain I’ve never clapped eyes on this shitty room before.
I raise myself to a half-sitting position, try to bundle my one flat pillow behind my aching back, but it’s like a sheet of paper. There’s a window behind me, sill covered with empties repurposed as ashtrays. The morning light—if it is still morning—is gray as smoke.
Why the hell am I fully dressed? These jeans and fleece, are they even mine? And why am I still so goddamned cold?
I dig a stiff tissue out of my pocket and blow my nose. It’s the wrong shape, asymmetrical, twisted left. Massaging the knot of bone at the bridge switches a light on in my brain.
The fight. Blake Benfield.
The river. The fucking river.
How did I get here? Where is here?
Sometimes the recovery of a detail after a heavy night brings the whole lot flooding back—the edited highlights at least. But not so now. It feels so impossibly distant.
Who got me out of the river? I touch my face again. There’s no tenderness, only unshaven skin. No blood on my hands. None on the pillow.
Surely my injuries needed attention? Was I that pissed? So wrecked that I only imagined the severity of my beating?
The pain I’m in is that of a brutal hangover. And there’s a hollow ache in my bones. But nothing that suggests I got my head kicked in other than my nose, which feels misshapen and unfamiliar to my touch.
What the hell happened last night?
Holly. I jerk upright like I’ve been electrocuted, swing my feet onto the floor. I brace against the urge to vomit and eventually the bile retreats, leaving a hot trace down my esophagus.
Is this her place? I look around at the curtains that sag from the rail, clinging to the last remaining hooks. The tar-steeped net curtain beyond. The chest of drawers and its curling veneer. This can’t be hers.
I have to steady myself against the walls and furniture as I lurch from the bed to the door. The corridor outside is almost in darkness, lined with maroon doors similar to the one I’ve emerged from. At the far end, daylight seeps from a half-open door. I can hear the tinkle of cutlery on china.
“Watcha?” the girl says as a I stand on the threshold.
“Morning,” I say, forcing a smile. My voice is raspy and requires too much effort. It is alien, yet unquestionably my own.
“You look like I feel, mate,” she says.
“Right. Sorry, this is...awkward.”
“Why, what you done?” She’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen worktop, wedging herself in place with a socked foot on the washing machine opposite. She shovels another mound of cereal into her mouth, bowl held under her chin. I’m trying not to stare, but I’m certain I’ve never met her before in my life. “Sugar Puffs?” she offers, glancing at the box next to her. “Well, Super Honey Puffs actually.”
I raise a palm, the idea of food horrific. “I might have...how can I put this? I don’t—”
“Spit it out, bruv.”
“How did we get back here last night?”
“We? What’s with the we?”
“Right. Sorry. How did I get here last night? Look, I’ve cocked up. I don’t think I remember...your name?”
She holds her hand to her face in mock surprise. “Oh my days, Al.”
“Sorry.”
“Mate, that’s a serious night you’ve had. Even by your standards. You’re priceless sometimes.” Her grinning expression implies this is a joke I should be in on too. “I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name,” she says, an adequate impression of my gruff, wrecked voice.
“Did Holly bring me here? Was Holly here?”
“Don’t know no Holly, mate.”
“Who brought me here? Please?”
She stares at me deeper, like she’s realized I’m not on a windup. She’s younger than I thought, her youthful features at odds with how she speaks. Everything about her is slight: narrow face, tied-back hair, tiny frame that is lost in a fleecy tracksuit. What is she doing alone in a hole like this? I attempt a friendly smile.
“Kenzie,” she says with a shudder of incredulity. “Just so we’re clear.”
“Cheers. Good to meet you, Kenzie.”
“Give over, mate.”
I back up a step, the need to vomit returning.
“Think you need a little something from your cupboard.”
“Yes. Will do,” I mumble, no idea what she means. But something strikes me as I look round the small kitchen—all the eye-level cupboards have hasps and padlocks on them. What’s that about? Only one is unlocked and ajar; it is presumably where Kenzie took her lurid cereal box from.
My throat is dilating, mouth suddenly wet. “Bathroom,” I say, looking along the dark corridor.
“For the best,” Kenzie says.
“Where is it?”
“Shitting hell.”
I thump a couple of closed doors but none give. “Kenzie!” I hiss. “Please?”
“How long have you lived here?” she says, stamping past me and kicking open a door at the top of a staircase.
“Lived?” The room is swimming as I stand, lost, staring at her.
“Mad,” she says, walking away. “I won’t tell the others, don’t worry.”
For ten minutes or more I lie fetal on the lino floor. The smell of piss is intense. Having purged the contents of my guts, I want to sleep. But there is too much pain. And too much confusion. And it’s so cold. A longing memory of yesterday returns, tugging my heart like it’s a lost era: the boat, the hot sun. A tear tickles my face.
We were in the grips of a heat wave. Why is it freezing? Why are my arms sickly pale?
The basin creaks and gives a little as I grab the rim and draw myself up to standing. A face meets mine in the veined mirror. Yellowed eyeballs glare back at me. Wild. Petrified.
What the fuck?
I heave but there’s nothing left to eject. Sweat beads on my forehead.
What’s happened to me?
My skin is like a rubber mask, loose-fitting and closer to gray than any living thing should be. Burst blood vessels pepper my cheeks with color.
I squint. Deep lines beside my eyes fold into furrows.
There’s a bang on the door. “Gonna be much longer, Al?” Kenzie says.
“Gimme a minute,” I say, but I’m not sure any sound comes out.
“Places to be,” she says. “So...if you wouldn’t mind?”
Some sort of amnesia? Some crazy practical joke?
“How long have I been here?” I ask, opening the door to Kenzie. My attempt at a casual tone is hopeless—I sound as desperate as I feel.
“Not long enough to flush,” she says, yanking the chain and shoving the window open.
“This house, I mean.”
She looks at me with sad eyes. “Maybe you should get some rest, mate?”
“How long, Kenzie. Please?”
She shrugs. “Longer than me. You were here when I turned up. I didn’t talk so much back then. You were kind to me.”
“And that was...?”
“Four months-ish.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Sorry for asking. Won’t trouble you further.”
Kenzie shakes her head. “Well, if you don’t mind, then?” She lowers the toilet seat.
I turn to leave. An icy gust whips by my neck from the opened window. I spin around. “What’s the date?”
“Dunno. End of November.”
The little sky I can see is frozen white, pregnant with snow.
“Want to know what year as well?” Kenzie asks with a smile.
I go to speak, tell her I’m perfectly aware it’s ’95, compelled to prove my sanity. To who, I wonder.
“2010,” she says over me. “Just in case, yeah.”
“Yup. Of course it is.”
“No disrespect, bruv, but I’m about to piss myself here.”
“It’s really November?”
“Check for yourself—Free-Ads come through the door earlier.”
“Right.”
“You know, perfect if you’re looking for companionship with a larger lady, possibly more.” She grins, like we’ve joked about this before.
I step into the corridor, more lost than ever.
“Alex,” Kenzie calls. “Get yourself some rest, yeah. I’ll be back later. I’ll check in on you.”
I NEED A DOLLAR
I’ve been tearing my room apart for two hours straight when I hear the front door open. Male voices ascend the stairs. Instinct tells me to stash everything away.
I throw the guitar case back in the corner. It’s covered in stickers, the biggest proclaiming Tony Blair Is a War Criminal. Upon opening it I almost didn’t recognize my beloved Fender California. It’s chipped and scratched and with excess string in a bird’s nest round the pegs—it’s had a hard time since I last gigged with it at the Blue Moon. What I assumed was a plectrum rattling inside the body turned out to be something else when I eventually shook it out through the sound hole—a padlock key. The kitchen cupboard it fitted yielded some unappetizing dried pasta, and a third of a bottle of sweet sherry. Is that what Kenzie meant about having something from my cupboard? She wasn’t wrong—I’m no less confused than I was two hours ago, but I can think now the ache in my bones has eased. I always thought it was only fully-fledged alcoholics who need sherry to kick-start their day.
A heavy palm slaps the other side of my door. “Mr. Dean?” a creamy baritone booms, pure Swansea.
Fugue state. I read about it once—someone wakes up somewhere and time has passed since their last memory and they’ve got no clue how they ended up there. Or this is some cruel joke; surely that’s most likely. There’s a handful of pages in here from a newspaper called The Metro, and they’re all dated 2010, just like the East London Free-Ads hanging from the letterbox. If someone’s got it in for me, they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep me disorientated.
