Broken Neon Arabesque (5/?)

[fugaziclash]

Part 5

It’s ‘W’ day. Not Waterloo, never been all that great with the ‘ole battle dates, spent too much time in history lessons reading poetry under the desk. Nor is it Watergate, ‘cos equally I’m clutching at straws in matters of US politics…no. It’s Wolfman day…something I have far more knowledge of. A bit of an expert on the subject actually, though I don’t like to boast.

Lotta plotting has to go into these days, every step has to be perfect or Wolfie will screw you for all you’ve got. Actually, maybe Waterloo day wouldn’t be all that far off…needs to be planned with all the strategy of a battle. In fact I bet Wellington (another W…must be a sign) didn’t put half as much thought into his plans as I’ve put into mine. Surprising how easily it all comes back really, thought I might’ve let some stages slip in the time since I’d managed to find Mick….good bloke, runs pretty straight down the middle. ‘Course, that’s the problem, if drug dealing’s your vocation, you’ve got to be a right cunning bastard to avoid the fuzz…that’s why there’s so many Wolfies out there, while Micks are scarce on the ground. All the Micks are in the nick…you see?

A W day starts by getting up and dressing…not trying to look respectable, you want him to think you’re strapped for cash. Equally though, you don’t want to look too bad, ‘cos the Wolf’s got an eye for desperation, and the alternate means of paying he’s prone to offer are to be avoided at all costs….he’ll have you selling your soul for some rotten skag cut with curry powder. So I opt for a compromise, shaving as best as is possible with the vicious weapon that Carl has the cheek to call a razor, before sticking on my old, ripped to hell jeans and ratty trainers, but grabbing a clean, white shirt that’s hanging in the wardrobe, twisting a tie round the collar and folding the sleeves up so that it’s not obvious that they finish a good few inches above my wrists. My hands shake slightly as I do this, the tie wound like a knotted shoelace, no patience for the slow ‘round, up and through’ technique I got taught as a kid as I fix on the next stage of the plan.

Next stage is the most important, after all. I dig the small plastic bag from my jean pocket, roll it slowly between finger and thumb before tipping the contents slowly, carefully, onto a spoon, shaking out the bag to ensure every last grain is gone. Drag a finger slowly up the inside of the plastic, lick it, before reaching back inside my pocket, extract my lighter, shake it slightly…needs refilling soon…click that finger down on the switch, hold it as the powder bubbles into liquid. Almost automatic now, can allow my mind to fix back on the plan again. This part here…wind the belt from round my waist….this is so I’m not craving when Wolfie sees me. ‘Cos when that need has you in its claws…..tighten it round a practically non-existent bicep (Guess I needn’t bother sending out that entry form for ‘World’s Strongest Man’ then), grasp leather in teeth…then you’ll pay anything, say anything, do anything, and a good dealer, they’ll know that, know they can snatch just about whatever they take a shine to…..fill syringe, locate a vein, that’s getting harder these days. Last time I went to Wolfie’s desperate for a fix he decided he liked my shirt, nice one it was too, mum bought it for me when I went off to uni. Anyway, suffice to say, I don’t fancy walking back here shirtless, moneyless and with a fucking sore arse…although I’m sure Carlos would get a laugh out of it, and fuck knows he could do with one…Draw the plunger down, up again, syringe fills with red….breathe in, out, and let the plan fly away…

* * * * *

Once my head has cleared slightly I get up, the carpet feeling like soft sponge as I push myself off it, easily, like the air is slipping in behind me, helping me float to my feet. Fingers move, little ballet dancers travelling fluidly along to unravel and then re-tie my tie to a standard befitting the most anal of big-city estate agents. Everything’s still luxurious, slow, every movement pushing through the air like honey. I slip my tongue past my lips to taste, but no, nothing…maybe smoke, whisky…but that could just be me trying to fool myself because that’s what the air in this place should taste of. Because that is what I’m sure Carl tastes of….smoke, whisky, sweat…and this place is somehow a part of him. Maybe not a good part…a tumour, a disease…restricting, life-sapping…but a part nonetheless, this flat is him now, his character is etched on the very walls that currently bend slightly…like a reflection in a fairground mirror, daubed there in red by his shadow as he turns the other way.

I walk over, to the rectangular slab of mattress…try to tether my brain to my eyes long enough to take in his form, no need, ‘cos as soon as look over I’m bound there….seeing him, all made up of brushstrokes, smoothly layering across different tones…an invisible hand coming in when he shifts slightly, painting in shadow falling across the side of his face with a delicate touch. He’s asleep, fingers wound into the sheets, one leg kicking off the edge of the mattress, frown still on his face even in slumber. I’d wake him…tell him where I’m off to, that I’ll be back, ‘cos this little game of Russian roulette we’re playing with each other hasn’t been resolved yet…but I’ve seen his pacing up, down, up again, yawning…seen the black shadows under his eyes….still have enough decency not to wake him when he’s finally managed to find sleep. Anyway…it’s not like he’s gonna run straight out, advertise in the newsagent for a replacement anyway ‘Wanted - flatmate, well versed in the art of irritation. BYOD.’

He’s a far too enticing fucker, a problem I already feel that I have to try and solve and haven’t managed to even get close yet….looking softer, lips parted slightly, thin lines creasing a pale forehead, hair not looking as greasy and lank spread as it is over the pillow and the shocking blue gaze I’m getting used to burning into my own shielded under heavy lids…feel a slight tightness in my throat…swallow….shrug it off. If he looks almost…well…beautiful now, it must be only ‘cos he’s asleep, stillness highlighting some gentleness, a vulnerability I’m not sure even exists in him….or pr’haps it’s just the remnants of my heroin-tinted glasses rubbing down the harsh edges of my sight. I’m hoping it is…although a shadow whispers in my ear…tells me I’ve seen the beauty, the vulnerability before in him…just locked the knowledge away in some dark corner of my mind…but it’s all illuminated now…thoughts swimming up behind my eyes….that his beauty is even more noticeable highlighted against anger, burning, shimmering in passion…sends a thrill up your spine, the brightness of it. The voice snidely informs me that this is why I provoke him so. Is it? Perhaps. I can deal with that….been attracted to blokes before…nothin’ special or terrible about that…if that’s all it was then I’d have probably have fucked him by now, been on my merry way…..but it’s that vulnerability that scares me at the same time as it binds me to him. Makes my thoughts bend towards unfurling the reasons for it…want to know what happened to screw him up so royally….while it also, more frighteningly, makes me want to give up pieces of my soul to knit together the tattered scraps of his. I could lose what little I have left of myself to him, I’m sure of it….and it fucking terrifies me…but at the same time…maybe there is just enough of the two of us that if we pieced ourselves together…we could maybe make each other work?

I gulp, physically remove myself from my thoughts.....leave them to seethe around in the backdrop of my mind while I let the straightforward steps of the plan rescue me with their thick, clear outlines that don’t wave about, turning and spinning away from me. I need to get moving, working on a tight schedule here. I pull my feet reluctantly from the thick carpet, one in front of the other, out the still half-off-it’s-hinges door, run up the steps and out onto the street. Fuck…the sunlight’s bright…can feel it shining through my skin, colouring me translucent and coming out the other side. I blink, stand still for a second before heading hurriedly up the pavement. Feel like Dorothy landing in Oz…the world outside has colour, pale green grass patched out over small front gardens, enough weeds thrusting through to make it look like the grass is the intruder, the harsh yellow of a traffic warden shines bright as he snoops along the road towards a red car…old sports one…young skint bloke trying to still look flash or someone trying hard to hold on to a symbol of their youth? It’s got a smashed in window anyways. The warden peers in, grins, and then pastes a ticket to the windscreen. How very generous of him.

I breathe in, feel my lungs widen as if they’ve been kept compressed for however long I’ve been in that flat, can hear my stomach rumble as the fresh air brings me fully out from the half alive twilight I have been living in that monochrome, timeless place. No time for grub now though, maybe grab something on the way back, something that isn’t fucking soup. Ah…bus stop. Scrabble in pocket….come out with my swipey card…just have to pray that there’s still some cash remaining on it….study the timetable…254’ll take me to Whitechapel…comes every ten minutes…dunno the time now.

I turn to the old bloke that’s my bus-stop companion. He’s got one of those flat-caps, the ones that have come into fashion with younger folks now, though his is tweed, looks as if it might be as old as me, frayed, dirtied, tattered at the edges. His thin, fluffy hair is pressed down by the cap, a grey that looks as if it might actually be white if he had a good wash and a large, red nose under quick, darting eyes that stray towards me, before hurriedly moving back to pointedly examine the timetable.

“Got the time?”

He starts, draws his thick grey mac around him in a shuffling gesture, like a bird fluffing out feathers, makes a small clicking noise with his tongue but doesn’t respond.

“You hear me? The time?”

Okay…maybe I sound a touch irritated, don’t like being ignored…but not enough to merit the raised eyebrows, wide panicked gaze, the way the man scrabbles with his sleeve like I’m going to attack him if he doesn’t tell me in a matter of moments.

“I-it’s f-five to ten!”

Almost a squeak, the expelled words...like thin plastic, stretched tight to the point of breaking, being rubbed between forefinger and thumb. He still seems twitchy…frightened of me…I smile wide, kindly thank him with all the warmth possible but he just backs further away against the faux-glass of the bus-shelter, drawing his suitcase to his chest in an instinctive movement.

I sigh…a thin cloud in the air that’s freezing despite the brightness of the day…makes me remember that I’m out o’ fags, need to get some…look back over to the man…there’s just no pleasing some people. He’s made his world…one in which he is the poor defenceless victim and I’m some dark malevolent force….ain’t nothing I can do to coax him from it, make him see that I’m a pretty good lad really. You can’t live your life on first impressions…the best people are like puzzles, something shining and pure inside a high walled maze. Can’t judge on many impressions at all actually…because in this world everyone’s hiding beneath a plethora of different faces, identities, breaking out a new personality for every different situation. I know I do it myself….I’m a different Pete here in this moment than the one who will slink into Wolfman’s den later today, and that man would be a stranger to my mother, used to her polite, sensitive son…sometimes I’m not sure which is the real me, and at other times I think there might not be one anymore….think I’ve been pretending so long that my soul has broken up into different shards…perhaps I shall spend my life leaping from one to the other….not able to keep still in case my inherent deception is discovered…

Is he like that? Is there a light-hearted, optimistic man that existed for Carl’s friends? Would they start if they saw him now? I can’t bring myself round to that theory in my head….he is different, I think….all frayed threads wrapped around each other, being pulled in different directions by changing moods but still remaining as one….knotted together, impossibly complex…

I snap out of my train of thought as a bus pulls up….ah…254, I’m in luck. The nervous gent makes a small movement as if to board it, but when he sees that I’m also moving towards the doors he stops. Guess he must be getting the next one then. I get on the bus, there’s no seats left so I stand between an old dear with her shopping and a young lad…well, I say young…probably much the same age as me…23, 24 perhaps. He’s wearing frayed jeans, a thin washed-out red tracksuit jacket over a bright green t-shirt with ‘The Ramones’ emblazoned across it. I’m always curious about people wearing those tops, and I break the established bus travelling rule of standing/sitting in silence, not breathing a word to anyone.

“So, d’you like them then?”

I point at the words on his top, and he grins, brown hair flopping slightly over one eye.

“Yeah…well, for comedy value really.”

Everything about this gent is friendly, from the warmth in brown eyes to the light Irish brogue he speaks in. He raises one eyebrow slightly, apparently finding amusement in me now, but not the kind I can take offence by, already I get the feeling that this chap couldn’t be malicious if he tried.

“Why d’you ask?”

I find myself smiling back, shrug slightly.

“Think most folk that wear Ramones t-shirts think they’re some kind of designer make.”

He laughs, light, clear, and the amusement shows in a glint in brown eyes.

“Right you are mate,” he shakes his head, smiling, moves one hand from the pole he’s grabbing on to. “’m Drew.”

I take his hand, shake it so that he can quickly place it back on the pole before the bus turns a sudden corner. “Pete.”

“Pleased to meet you, Pete.” he says with sincerity, making up for all the dozens of people who, right at this moment will be using those words to fill up blank space, perhaps flatly addressing it to the girl their mate set them up with who instead of being “Slightly older…but you couldn’t tell - she’s a right laugh” looks the double of their old maths teacher….right down to the grey, hand-knit cardie….half scared she’ll request the menu factorised…or maybe a hotel porter, monotonously emitting the words for the twentieth time today as he looks over your head to the ticking clock. “Where you off to this fine day?” He smirks slightly as he says the last part, perhaps thinking about the biting cold outside.

“Em...” This guy seems pretty open, non-judgemental, but still, I find myself not wanting to respond to the warm, pleasantly curious question with ‘Off to see my dealer. You?’ Perhaps a slight bending of the truth is in order. “Got a mate in Whitechapel. Payin’ a social call.”

“Right. Tea’n biscuits then?”

I laugh…and the sound is as gentle and lightly mirthful as his was. “Something like that…” His smile grows wider and I think there might be some promise in his glance, and this would normally be the time that I’d do something, maybe grab hold of his arm lightly at the next harsh swing of the bus, to see how he reacted, to see if just maybe there might be a possibility there, but I just smile back instead. He’s a nice lad, all easy charm and pretty handsome too, everything I’d usually go for….but I’m not feeling it….too used perhaps to the thrill piercing blue eyes send to my core to fully appreciate this gentle, safe interaction.

I move the conversation on, asking him where he’s off to - playing double bass in a jazz cafe - make light, pleasant banter until the bus pulls up at my stop. Drew hurriedly scratches his number onto a scrap of paper, tells me to call him if I ever feel like a drink, before I step off the bus. I might take him up on that actually….might be nice, a change from Carlos, where every trivial word seems of vital importance, clues set out at gaping intervals to unlock the mysterious young man….everything so laden with tension, dancing up and down a tightrope the two of us…got no fucking idea what lies below if we fall off. I stuff the piece of paper into the back pocket of the wallet I subtly bumped from the old bloke at the bus-stop….not guilty about it…I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t acted like I was going to…I’m terrible for feeling that I have to live up to expectations. Can’t have anyone going away disappointed, can I?

Right, now just where was Wolfie’s flat? It’s been too long….no…wait….hasn’t been nearly long enough. Ah, there - with the red door, a couple of lines in thick black pen….by my hand I think, although I don’t recall writing them ‘O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover’s sentinel *’…sounds like something I’d feel the need to emblazon on the dark crimson…trace my finger over the words before reaching for the knocker, two hard thumps against wood…..I’m sure it had been relevant when I’d written it…almost everything is…

Can hear shuffling noises from inside…the door creaks open and a large grey dog pokes it’s head out of the gap…snuffling in the cold air and fixing me in it’s big, dark, gaze. Remus…Wolfe’s dog. A lovely mutt it is too…big softie. I scratch his head and he sniffs at my jeans, retreating back into the flat once satisfied with my identity. Wolfman likes to tell folks that the dog is the reason he got his nickname, led folk to the obvious conversion of his last name….the dog is wolflike, yeah, but Peter Wolfe was the Wolfman long before he got his canine companion…

“Peter…” he draws out the first ‘e’ in my name, sounding it like Peeeter, he stands refined in the doorway, long thin fingers linked in front of his chest. “What a pleasure..” His lips carve the words from the ether….a right refined gent, Wolf is on first glance, with his flowing chocolate brown hair, long thin nose accentuating a slim face, those slender fingers, like you’d expect from a pianist….yeah, right Svengalli this one is. Not long after I first met the enigmatic Peter Wolfe, I decided that his hollowed, almost skeletal figure was because all of the darkness and foibles that makes up a part of the rest of us had been stripped away…leaving only dignity, gentleness and a deeply generous soul. ‘Course that was before I even knew he did junk. I know better now…am modeling the look myself.

“Come in.” He stands aside, lets me step into his flat. If Wolfe can be said to always take pride in his appearance, the same cannot be said of his attitude towards his home. Even the entrance way is dark, dank, moisture leaking from a dark patch on the ceiling, falling to stain the once-cream carpet. I shiver, although it’s warmer in here than outside, and Wolf smiles slowly, lips gradually peeling back from bared teeth. He didn’t smile for the first couple o’ weeks of my acquaintance, or if he did they were polite, closed lips affairs…no, no, no…that smile’s saved for the moment when you finally realize what you’ve got yourself in to, predatory, it stamps across your soul ‘Property of Wolfman’.

I wouldn’t say he’s is like most drug-dealers really…the drugs he peddles aren’t the poison…well, they are, but he’s a worse one, the drugs just keep you coming back. I smile widely, aiming for an expression of joy at seeing a dear friend for the first time in months.

“Peter!” Appeal to his pride….give him his proper name…shows he’s respected. Also, he’s always liked that we’ve got the same name ‘Twins, we are’ he used to say…or that might’ve been me. “Been too long.” Whoops….wrong thing to say there. The grin freezes his mouth, turns into even more of a baring of teeth, eyes hard, suspicious.

“Yes….” He raises an eyebrow leisurely. “Why is it that you have not graced my doorstep in such a long time, dear Peter?” his tone is light, friendly even, like he doesn’t really care, is just mildly interested in my whereabouts. I gulp nonetheless…..he won’t like to hear that I went to someone else, there’s no way he’ll believe that I’d kicked the habit either….don’t think I would believe it, to look at me….and we both know I wouldn’t be back here if I had. Shrug, try to meet his apparent ease “Got picked up by the pigs after leaving here last time…thought I’d better stay away for a while.” Throw a bit of concern in there for good measure, “Wouldn’t want you getting nicked after all.”

Wolfman nods in that slow, solemn manner of his, presses a hand to my back, leading me through into the living room…fucking literally the living room, take-away boxes with green furry mould are littered across the sofa and I’m certain I once saw a rat make a break across the stained carpet, chased by the dog that is now lying, its long, grey body curled up, in front of the unlit grate. Ironically though, the actual plants in the room, standing in pots by the fireplace, have both withered and died.

“What a good boy you are.” I’m shocked he believed my tale…perhaps he didn’t…got me now doesn’t he? I guess the small print doesn’t really matter. “So…business or pleasure?” His gaze flicks over to the suitcase that rests on a clutter-free chair.

“Seeing you is always a pleasure, Peter.” Which of course, means business. He knows this….smiles to himself and prowls over towards the case, pressing down the catch with those spindly fingers, running them slowly over the inside like a doctor selecting his tools.

“How much?” No games now, when it comes down to it, Wolfie is a true businessman.

I take my purloined wallet from my pocket…there’s thirty quid there, more than I would have expected actually, makes a small shiver of guilt creep up my spine ‘cos that bloke didn’t exactly look like he was rolling in it. Still, nothing to do about it now. I pull out the notes, matching them with the last of my own funds. “Got forty quid.”

Wolfman smirks slightly, lifting out four small tenner bags before snapping the case shut, and I quickly notice the motion of his free hand slipping keys into an inside pocket. He heads towards me, lets me take a look at the bags of junk in his upturned hand. This is the moment where I’m glad I’m not craving….if he’s trying to swindle me I can call him on it…but, of course, he knows I’m playing with the full deck today so he hasn’t even attempted to tap the bags*, or anything of the sort. I place the notes in his hand and he lets me remove the heroin. His eyes watch my movement, and I sigh in relief when I feel my pocket weighted down.

“Right…I’d better be off then.” I can feel confidence seeping back into my veins now that I know I’ve made it…perhaps over-confidence…as Wolfe slides towards me.

“So soon Peter?”

“I..ah..” I stumble for words, panic slightly…I don’t want to get into this again…feel his long fingered touch against my arm bring bitter memories shooting across my mind, and I summon words somehow. “…said I’d meet a friend, y’see…”

His touch lifts. “Okay then…next time.” He smiles generously, knowing I won’t be able to deny him when I return in a week or so’s time. I swallow, but step away gratefully…I’m okay for the time being…can worry about next time when it comes….got that bag in my pocket…It’ll all be fine. I turn to leave…now I’ve got the drug my body is starting to call out for it, slow murmurs that don’t come from my ears but instead from starved veins. I hear Wolfman clear his throat, turn slowly.

“Not saying goodbye?”

He’s like the fucking Riddler…always with the questions. I feel anger rising inside of me…just want to get out - is that too much to ask? He just has to keep dragging me back to him. I smile as I turn back to him. “Goodbye Wolfie. Until next time.” He grins, lips tight over teeth, shakes his head slowly. “A proper goodbye, Peter.” I freeze for a moment, not remembering Wolfe’s definition of what constitutes a proper goodbye, before lips burn into mine….I let his tongue rape my mouth, as Wolfman tries to claim every inch….don’t respond greatly, despite the revulsion I feel winding up like coil…just let him do as he will. I’m his…I might try to deny it but he knows it…makes it perfectly clear in the cold curl of those same lips once he finally pulls away, opening the door for me and letting me escape with one last piercing look.

It’s a while before I get far enough away to get rid of the feeling of his eyes burning into my back, but not the slow whirl of nausea…caused as much by the knowledge that I’ll have to do this all again, and that next time will be worse, as it is from the actual physical claim Wolfie had made on me…after all, that could have been a lot worse than a mere kiss, has been before…I spot a public toilet, step inside…cubicle needed. I throw up into the bowl, which lessens the nausea slightly, takes my mind off it, before I take the last step to rid myself of concerns, dropping the toilet seat and withdrawing some of my purchase with shaking fingers.

****

Rap on the door twice….no answer, so I just stride on in…kicking off shoes once inside the door, feeling the thick carpet through the holes in my socks and scrunching my feet into it, imagining it as grass, the squeeze of my toes bringing up moisture from thick peaty turf. Walk slowly across it to the garden table….there’s drops of blood on the grey surface….no matter, they could just as easily be drops of juice from strawberries, eaten in the hot sun, couldn’t they? Yes, yes I think so. A mumble…hmmm…what’s that? Ah…Carlos. His form lying tangled up in sheets on the mattress doesn’t work with my illusion, so I return to reality, not feeling any real loss as I kneel down beside the mattress, on the carpet that is carpet once more.

“Mnerugh..”

Carl again…I think he’s still asleep, despite the odd little mumbling noises, and so I let my fingers thread through hair where a lock curls against the pillow. It’s wet…could almost be liquid, trickling though my fingers…but I don’t think Carl would suit baldness if it all leaked away. I hear a high pitched giggle…then realise it’s me laughing quietly as I imagine what he’d look like…just ends up as him with one of those skin-tone swimming cap type things actually but it’s ridiculous enough. There’s damp patches on the carpet leading up to the bed - must’ve been compensating for his lack of godliness then, although he looks pretty damn godly to me right- fuck it! Only just enough time to draw my fingers away as he rolls over onto his side, facing me, but despite the sudden movement eyes are still closed, breath still drawing in and out slowly, rhythmically….I tap out the pulse in my head but it doesn’t exactly have the tempo for a dance-floor classic and it blocks the other thoughts that are milling around, starting to line up in orderly rows again, until they beat it down, go about their business. I back away a touch anyway, just incase this is the prelude to him waking, but there doesn’t seem to be any other sighs of alertness, so I draw myself close again.

“…doing…what?...didn’t mean to…”

My lips are bent up into a grin as his soft lips mumble round words, even as he continues to sleep undisturbed. Got to love folk that talk in their sleep….doesn’t even matter if they don’t say anything bad….so long as they know that they do it you can spin any sort of tale and have it stick. Of course if they do say something embarrassing, all the better, but either way’s’ good with me. I scoot even closer to the side of the mattress, not taking the chance that I might miss any of the quietly mumbled words. Place elbows on knees, chin on hands, can almost picture myself as a strange Egyptian statue, still and watchful. ‘Didn’t mean to do what?” I question internally, feel the words move from my head in an attempt to draw the answer out from his subconscious. Stupid as it seems, his lips move again so I decide its working, although I can’t work out what he’s saying…too quiet, and he’s pretty indecipherable in the first place to be honest. I lean closer, mere inches from him, close enough to feel the soft exhalations of breath, close enough to make out the soft words that barely move his lips.

“My fault, my fault, my fault…”

Can barely contain myself from reaching out, shaking him awake…What is his fault? Something tells this might be the key, a voice inside assures me that if I answer this question it will answer others…like why he’s here, why depression leaks from his bones in a great black mist. With every repetition of the words, I feel myself convinced more and more that I need to know this, becomes an all consuming mystery. My curiosity, hunger for answers finally breaks through, the questions in my head too loud, spilling over lips.

“What?! What’s your fault?!”

The words ring out loud in the silence of the room, bouncing off all the walls in turn before returning to my ears as I stare in silence, my whole world shrinking as I’m caught in the sudden focus of wide blue eyes…

* Endymion - Oscar Wilde
* 'tapping the bags' - when dealers remove small amounts of heroin from a bag before selling it, thus short weighting the buyer