Broken Neon Arabesque (10/?)
Part 10
It’s nice here. Tea on the lawns, some assorted characters loafing about. I could get used to this, I think, as a butler approaches, a bowler hat affixed on top of his rather large head.
“Gin, sir?”
Bloody well right. This is getting more perfect by the moment. When do the dancing ladies come in?
“No thanks Jeeves. I’m fine for the time being.”
That gives me pause, makes me stop for the first time to doubt the perfection of this place. Because that wasn’t me - it didn’t even sound like my voice. But the butler chap is nodding, tilting slightly at the waist as he swoops away with his tray. I try to raise my hand to feel my face, make certain that I’m still me, but instead I see a thin hand move down to set my teacup down on top of the small, finely crafted table that stands out of place on the pale blue lawn.
Just as irregular is the full length mirror, a few scant metres away. I find myself walking towards it, and as I move forward, white, delicate looking flowers rise from the ground, burst into bloom and then wither away, all in the blink of an eye.
Phew, it is me….looking rather dapper in a double breasted jacket - with a cravat, no less. And nice shoes, made of black, shiny leather. Wish I could remember where I got them, as I don’t often come across shoes with a point that nice, that don’t also have bloody massive Cuban heels, turning me into even more of a friggin’ giraffe than I already am. They almost look handmade, but it’s not like I’d ever have the dosh for that.
My hand rises up in front of my vision, a finger pressing on the glass, touching the reflection of one eye. When it lifts, I’m still standing there, but that eye has changed to a sparkling blue. My clone stares out at me from the mirror through different coloured eyes for a few disconcerting seconds, before he smiles, winks the blue eye and steps back. The mirror ripples, my reflection skews and tilts and I can feel a similar lurching pull inside me, but not like I’m moving, more like the rest of the world is, swirling quickly and dizzyingly around my stationary form…
* * * * *
Fuck it, they should be here by now.
Pete’s still the same. I couldn’t stand it, watching him, waiting for each breath to come, always with just enough of an interval to allow for a moment of paralyzing fear. I remembered the old idiom ‘a watched kettle never boils’ and started fearing that my presence was just making things worse, so I’d retreated back into the main room, started throwing things frantically into a case.
Just the essentials, everything else I will leave here. I don’t need it, not really. Pete will get more use of the books I’m sure, and he’s already laid a sort of claim to my shirts that had hung, unused in the wardrobe since the last time I’d had a job. Yeah, he’ll be okay, he can’t not be. He’s too alive, he’s got that ‘walk between the raindrops’ quality that should always ensure his safety even as he welcomes in danger. But, fuck it - if that were true then he wouldn’t have ODed on my bathroom floor then, would he? Although, if it hadn’t been for me, striking out at him, giving him something…someone that he needed to escape from then maybe he wouldn’t have taken too much? Oh shit, he has to be okay.
A jumper goes into the case, followed by three pairs of socks. Everything I’d kept safe, under the mattress, has been packed to go with me. Except that copy of ‘Oliver Twist’…Lucie’s copy, the one she’d given me for my twelfth birthday, that book that I hadn’t bothered to read further than the first chapter when she’d given it to me, but must have read a hundred times over since everything went to hell. The last few times I’ve skipped over Nancy’s death though. The rest of the book helps to preserve memories, but that part sends everything skidding back into place. My fingers trail along the words written in pen on the first page, before I close the cover slowly.
I gave this to Pete. It’s his now. I’ll carry my memories in my head.
But if I’m not taking that, then that’s me. Nothing left to get now, save from my razor and shampoo from the bathroom. My feet transport me over in an instant, because, as well as I might have tried to avoid it, everything inside of me is tugging me back towards Pete, needing to know that he’s, if not okay, at least not fallen any further into his drugged stupor. Intentions well and truly forgotten, I move straight to his side without even a thought of collecting the desired objects, kneeling down on my heels gripping his slack hand tight - too tight. I can’t help hoping that if I grip firmly enough then his eyes will flutter open in a brush of dark lashes, his voice protesting ‘Oi - I need that you know?’ lips curling up on one side and fingers clutching back anyway.
Not how it would actually play out, I know - he’d probably assume I was trying to hurt him again, but I’d take that over this nothingness. I don’t quite know why, but I need him to pull through, and not just because of my own guilt. It’s something else, that’s making me clasp his hand like a lifeline, even though he’s the one that needs saving. But he doesn’t react at all to the pressure of my hand, and he doesn’t even blink at the sirens, then the thumping on the door, that announce the arrival of the ambulance.
* * * * *
My head is reeling, as the world continues to spin and whirl around. My hand shoots out unthinkingly, hits the rippling glass of the mirror, and passes through with almost no resistance, floundering slightly before it is seized by another, firm grip that tugs me through, pulling my feet of the bucking, shaking ground for a moment until they come down on something more stable. Oh hell, I’ve actually gone through the looking glass, haven’t I? To be honest, I wish someone would’ve told me this was going to happen, Id’ve made an effort…worn a wig…maybe a skirt, played the part a bit more.
Not that it would matter, no one would be able to see me anyway, as through the mirror is inky blackness. The only thing that makes it real is the ground beneath my feet and the hand still gripping my own, tight enough to hurt…but there’s something reassuring about it too, a warm feeling of safety that flees when the grasp loosens, the hand parting from my own with a last, almost caressing touch.
“Where is he?” An unfamiliar voice rings out in the darkness, from somewhere nearby, I know not where. This complete blackness is nearly as disorientating as the spinning before, I can no longer tell up from down, forward from back…it’s like I’m floating, disconnected, can feel myself slowly drifting away. A strange song starts up, like something you might hear at the circus…‘One for ten pence, twelve for a pound’…a whirling melody getting faster and faster as the tamer cracks his whip, and the lion roars.
“--here---can---right?” Snatches of words break through, and I want to know what this one’s saying - why there’s so much panic in his voice. I strain my ears against the harsh music, but the next words aren’t from him.
“--okay---get the--”
“Quick, he’s--”
I almost give up hope of hearing more from the one whose words I’m sure mean something. I watch as the lion prowls from side to side, and the tamer sits down with his head in his hands. Then there’s a hand on my arm, and after that, a small, sharp pain.
“--’ve---given him?” It’s that voice again, and what’s more, the scene in front of my eyes is starting to flicker at the edges, the voices becoming clearer, more real.
“It counteracts---heroin. Pretty effective, if you get---fast enough.”
“--have you? Will he be okay?” The voice sounds worried, and I want to let him know that I’m fine, but I don’t seem to be able to move, my eyelids are weighed down, heavy, my mouth sown shut. So maybe I’m not fine…there must be something wrong with me, or he wouldn’t sound so afraid, and there wouldn’t have been that note of care in the others voice, as if he was making sure not to promise anything. The dawning feeling of reality brings with it fear, and I can feel my heart beating faster in my chest.
“His chances are pretty good….you did well mate…”
“…but?” Some of the panic has left his voice, but he still sounds scared.
“…it’s still not one hundred percent. The drug we gave him, it wears off faster than heroin leaves the bloodstream. But he’ll be in the hospital by then-” Another chips in,
“Which means that he’ll be in the best hands.” As if demonstrating this, a pair of strong hands take hold of my shoulders, and the other must have my feet because I’m lifted, moving through the air for a while until placed down on a flat…something. I can feel it start to move, and the fear starts rising again as connections begin to link together in my mind. But then fingers link lightly with my own, and I’m reminded of the grip from earlier, the one that tethered me down in the blackness, and it holds the fear back slightly, just enough for it not to take control.
“Just hold on Pete…you’ll be okay.”
I can tell that he’s trying to convince himself as well as me. I think I might be able to move my fingers, give us both some hope, but I start moving again, and his hand slips away. One of the voices calls back, from above my head.
“You coming to the hospital?”
Everything in me wants to hear a yes. He has to, doesn’t he? He’s done so much so far, why would he leave me here? There’s a long pause, and then I hear a shaking sigh…
* * * * *
Is there a reason for how much I really want to say yes to that question? To follow them into the ambulance. To be there, heart pounding dizzyingly as hopes and fears and wishes bubble and spark up as we move quickly through traffic in a way only possible in London if you’ve got a siren affixed to your car roof, my every thought tied to the stuttering hope that he’ll pull through.
There’s that odd, persuasive voice that’s telling me that, if I hope and worry and care enough then that’ll help him somehow. But of course, that’s not true. Doctors and medicine can help, but I can’t do anything. The only thing I can do is to make sure that this never happens again, prevent myself from chasing him once more into this terrible sequence of events.
I look behind me, to the nearly packed case on the floor, and then back at Pete, a long focused stare as I fix all the little details firmly in my mind. I can’t see his eyes, and panic floods me for a moment as I realize that I might forget them, and I don’t know what would be worse, forgetting, or remembering always…both bitter in different ways. I clear my throat, and tear my gaze back up to the paramedic that had asked the question. My heart is tugging me one way, my head the other as I hurriedly push words past my lips.
* * * * *
“No…I…I can’t. I’ve got to-” What? No.. The movement of the…stretcher, it must be, stops for a moment, presumably as they listen for his response, the wrong response, he must know that. “Just…make sure he’s alright…yeah?”
The movement starts again, and I don’t care about the sorrow in the voice, or the “We’ll do our best.” assurance it gets in response. I just want them to go and get him, make him see that he has to come, that I need him to. But they don’t, and I’m maneuvered around, up…before sirens start and I can’t help but feel that I’m both getting closer to safety, and further away…