Brokan Neon Arabesque (14/18?)
Title: Broken Neon Arabesque(14)
Rating: A bit of everything really, nothing too bad
Summary: Carl has locked himself away from the world, living a life of self-imposed quarantine until a certain stranger comes crashing through his door...
Beta: the lovely rutherinahobbit
Notes: I have been fighting with LJ trying to post this for far too long, so here's hoping this works. It's too long for a single post, so I've split it in half. Second part to follow
part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13
Part 14
As I approach the phone box and the end of my road, it starts ringing. Gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies, I can tell you, maybe even more so because I know fine well who it is. Okay, so it’s not a renegade military sniper out to get me as soon as I step inside, but it is a borderline obsessive-compulsive fetishist and I think that’s enough grounds to be slightly spooked.
As soon as I step inside I lift the receiver to my ear.
“John.”
“Carl.”
So it is him. I peer out the windows of the phone box, looking around for observers.
“How the fuck did you know that I’d be here, now?”
John laughs, a joyous giggle that doesn’t sound sinister in the slightest, and somehow, that creeps me out even more than if it had been. “I’ve been calling every ten minutes since I got back to the flat.”
Oh. Well…at least he’s not psychic. Quite possibly completely fucking obsessed, but not psychic or watching me. Bet you he called every ten minutes on the dot too. Counting the seconds, or setting an alarm. That would be just one-hundred percent, bona-fide John Hassall for you. I open my mouth, but John speaks first. Odd that, usually, you’d be quicker waiting for the Continental Drift to carry you to Australia than waiting on the words of Mr Hassall.
“So, what was it that you were trying to run away from?”
“From….I….what?” Okay, he’s really starting to freak me out now. He tuts, I can hear the clicking of his tongue across the phone line.
“When you phoned me, you were quite obviously looking to escape from something. So I helpfully gave you a push back towards it. I’m guessing that’s right? You don’t want to come and stay here?”
I’m still not quite getting it, how does he know all of this? It makes far too much sense, when I had phoned John I had been running away. From Pete. And, his parting remark from our last phone conversation had been enough to make most people think twice about going anywhere near him. You might need a knife….who says that to someone? But, then again, John doesn’t exactly hold to the same logic as your Average Joe. I sometimes think that inside of his head is made up of rows upon rows on neatly arranged boxes, lines and graphs, each conversation more like an equation designed to produce his desired result. If he’d wanted me to go back to what I’d been running from, then he wouldn’t have had any qualms in picking out the exact words to do so. And, I guess in a way, he had.
I swallow, feeling odd. Fucking hell, since when have I ever been grateful for John’s actions?
“Oh…no, I don’t. Cheers.” I pause for a moment, and then add, seeing as I half feel that he’ll somehow magically guess that too “It was….my friend…he OD-ed.”
“Alive?” Fuck. No mincing words there.
“Yeah. he’s alive.” I think about Pete, back in the flat, sound asleep, and close my eyes for a moment. Thank fuck he’s alive.
“Okay.” I can almost see John closing the box on that subject in his mind and moving on. After all, he doesn’t really care. To be honest, I’m not sure if there’s anything he does care about. “I came round. You were out. Fixed your door, tidied up a bit, left groceries.”
“Er…thanks?” Since when did John become my fucking home help? There must be some reason for this. John’s not a bad guy, he really isn’t, but he never does anything without motive.
“You can repay me when you’ve got the money.” John pauses, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be grinning knowingly into the receiver. “I’m guessing you don’t have it now, right?”
“Nope. ‘fraid I’m pretty skint, to be honest.”
“Right, thought you might be, or you wouldn’t still be living in that dive.” I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from protesting. It’s not a great place, I’ll admit, but it’s mine. “Well, I’ll wait until you can get it. Unless…”
“What?” Bloody John and his fucking dramatic pauses. I can just tell he’s about to drop a bleeding anvil on my head. He’s been far too normal so far and it’s making me feel all twitchy. Like standing next to a lion with a steak over my genitals. That twitchy.
“You know what. Come round to mine. Once, and we’ll call it even.”
“I…” I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this. If John says that he’ll wait until I’ve got the money to repay him then he will, he’s a man of his word. I don’t have to do this if I don’t want to. And he’s right, I knew what he wanted almost as soon as I’d seen his note on the table. Control, that’s what John craves. About the only bloke who’ll tie you to a bed, starkers, and not be thinking with his cock. Just having that control, that’s what it’s all about for him. Not pleasure, not pain….just complete, absolute control. And he’d like that from me. I think he’s known since the first time we met, that control is what I’ve been running from my whole life, that I’m the perfect pawn for his little games.
Except, I have to be in on the ball just now, don’t I? For Pete. He can’t be in control just now, I’ll have to pull myself enough together for the both of us. I can’t afford, for him, to be this terrified mess anymore. No. I have to hold it together, one hundred percent, not crumble for a second because even that could send everything to rack and ruin, I’m sure of it. My heart is pounding loudly in my chest, and suddenly John’s proposal is sounding like a chink of light in the darkness, a invitingly beckoning prospect. I want to be there for Pete, want to help, in any way I can, and surely I can do that better if I let John purge my dark side every once in a while, yeah? Yes, yes…I think so. I don’t really know, but this whole situation, it’s like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back, I don’t know anything for sure. I can only stumble in blind and hope that I don’t punch holes in the walls.
I breathe in slowly and give John his long-awaited response. “’kay. When d’you want me?”
* * * * *
I wake, and I must have slept for hours but my body doesn’t feel like it, muscles aching as if I’ve just run a marathon. Not that….not that I’d know that anyway. More of a hundred metres man meself. Even then, walking. Oh Christ, I feel like shit.
One of my earliest memories is being in bed with a raging fever. I remember it lasting for days, sweating through blankets, head swimming, being forced to drink Lucozade before throwing up into a bucket my mum had left by my bedside. It had been terrible, my over-active young imagination had convinced itself that I was going to pop my clogs, and I’d mourned all the great and good things that I was doubtless going to do with my life. Wonder what that boy would say if he could see me now. He wouldn’t believe that I was his future. How could he? Anyway, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to how I’m feeling now, and I can feel those memories fall over my head as I open my eyes and the room seems to tilt before me, a reeling sensation in my stomach like I’m in a sea-storm and sweat beading on my brow. I’m too hot, boiling, and I kick off the blankets, getting them caught over one leg, pulling until the motion makes me feel sick and I stop, swallowing.
I feel like crying, screaming, because I’m not five years old and come down with the flu. Instead, everything’s tearing itself apart. My dad isn’t going to come in, sit on the end of my bed and play Hancock cassettes on his little portable tape player. No, no, no….
And I know that I could just end this. End it. Now. A quick phone call. Is being clean worth this? What joys are there in a drug-free life? I don’t know that I even remember.
“ ’ey….Pete.” I look up and hardly see anyone there, but still appreciate the hand that lifts to my forehead, gentle and caring, even if it does feel freezing against my hot, clammy skin. It stays there for a moment, then brushes back through my hair. I open my mouth to tell him don’t, I can feel that my barnet’s thick with sweat, unpleasant, but I don’t manage to get the words out, nausea overtaking me. My eyes flicker about, muddled brain looking for that bucket that had been placed by my bed over twenty years ago, before I throw up onto the carpet.
* * * * *
Sodding, bloody, arsing christ. I fling the cloth into the sink, turn the taps on as heavy as they’ll go and leave it like that for a moment, staring at the ceiling until I feel the first few thick drops of moisture falling onto my socks. Fuck. I dance about, trying to turn the water off before more splashes down from the overflowing sink onto the floor before spotting the problem and pulling the offending cloth out from where it’s got stuck in the drain. I take a good look at it, and then, satisfied, chuck it onto the counter. Then I lean my head onto my hands and sigh deeply through my nose, before drawing myself up straight and turning back into the room.
Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete….ah Pete. There he is. There he - oh fuck. I make it two steps across the room, heart beating fast enough that if you stuck a high pitched voice over the top it could be a dance anthem, before I realize that, actually, Pete dialling numbers into the phone isn’t really all that much of a problem. I slow, come to kneel beside him, waving the cut wire of the phone cable in front of his downturned eyes. After a moment, he looks up, and I can see the hope slowly dimming in those wide brown eyes. He’s ash pale, and his forehead and hair are visibly damp with sweat. He looks at me like I’ve betrayed him, and he might as well have punched me in the chest.
“It’s been like that for ages.” I mumble, rather hollowly, but he doesn’t take any notice at all, just clutches the crinkled bit of paper that he’s holding tighter into his palm, holding it away from me, as if -
“Hey - what’s that?” I reach forward, and he tilts himself back on his heels, clutching his hand to his chest.
“Nothing.” Yeah…right. And I’m the friggin’ Pope.
“Give it ‘ere.” He tries to manoeuvre away further as I grab for the paper, but he’s not exactly in top athletic form, and I manage to pull it from his clammy hand, straight before dodging the clumsy swing he makes for me and scuttling to my feet.
“Give it back!” He sounds like a petulant child, looks like one too, as he pulls at his hair with one hand, face reddening. I shake my head, taking a step backwards, glancing down at my prize. Just like I thought, there’s a phone number on it. No prizes for guessing who it’s for. I head for the door, pushing the paper into my pocket at the same time as checking that the key’s still there.
“No, Carl! Stop!” I turn round, frowning, and he’s pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly and scratching at the skin of his arm. His eyes are wide. “You’re going to phone it, yeah? Just… get me a bit…. not enough that I’ll be addicted… just enough to tide me over…” he’s quite fantastically imploring, and I think it’s only the fact that I can’t tear my eyes away from the scratch, scratch of his nails against skin that saves me from the begging eyes and pathetic tone. I swallow, shake my head and take a step backwards, trying to block out his continued begging.
“Come on… I need it… just a little… I’ll still quit, I just need something to stop this.” I get within a step of the door and he suddenly switches from beseeching to furious, lunging towards me. “You’re going to kill me - is that what you want? To kill me?” His eyes are wild, panicked, and I wonder if he’s just spouting off anything or if he actually… I blink, shrugging his grasp off me, perhaps more forcefully than I should, blindly manoeuvring the key towards the lock, feeling it skate across wood before, there, I twist it, grip the handle, turning away from Pete. He clutches for my arm, moving like he can’t decide whether to pull me back or make a break out the door, the fury having melted from him.
“Don’t go Carl…I didn’t mean it…I won’t try to get more brown, just don’t, don’t-“ The slam of the door cuts him off, and I stand, head pressed against the wood, breathing deeply and shakily, in, out, in, out, until I no longer hear his voice muffled through the wood. I then lock the door, touching my hand against the scrap of paper in my pocket to remind me that I have to do something before I can go back. I’ve got the number of Pete’s dealer, there must be some way…for a minute I think about faking some kind of business call in order to trick the fucker into telling me his address, then heading over there and kicking the living daylights out of him. It would improve my mood, no doubt about it but…some voice inside my head is telling me that would be a bad idea. Telling me I have to do this the right way. I frown, not used to my conscience letting itself known quite so forcefully. Then I remember I’ve not drunk anything for what must be at least a couple of days now, and smile humourlessly before peeling myself from the door and heading off to do the right fucking thing.
* * * * *
Oh no, oh no, oh no. I gather myself up, none of me can be touching the floor, none, not a single toe, a solitary hair. It’s lined with poison, rats as big as cats, cats as big as dogs…no, fuck it…just rats, fucking big ones, crawling over each other with the twist of clawed feet and the bristle of hair, staring at me, just waiting until I move from the safety of the mattress. Well I won’t, no. I duck my head down onto my knees, but I can still hear the scrabbling sounds they make as they cross the floor, getting ever closer.
“Carl?”
Maybe he’ll get them away. Maybe. He didn’t get me brown from Wolfie when I asked, why should he do this? He obviously doesn’t care. Going out with the Wolfman’s number, coming back empty-handed, looking all pleased with himself. “Your mate won’t be a problem anymore.” Twisted grin. What did that mean? He didn’t get me any brown…but no, no, no - I don’t want it, didn’t, shouldn’t, I fucking do. At least he came back….I was so terrified that he wouldn’t come back…
“Hmm?” He sounds tired…is that my fault? I shake myself, blood solidifying in my veins, I’ve got to move so it doesn’t freeze in place forever. Maybe there’s something wrong with me…maybe I need the drugs, need them to keep the blood pushing round. Carl would get it then, wouldn’t he? No, no…it can’t be much longer, I can hold on, can’t be much longer.
“What is it, eh? Pete?” I feel a hand on my shoulder. His voice is warmer now, nearer. I slowly lift my head up….oh Christ, they’re still there…forcing myself to keep my eyes open, I point a finger straight at a grey, feral rodent…I’ve always been fucking terrified of rats.
“Them.”
Carl looks down, frowning, then back at me. His face is a strange mix of pity and curiosity. “Can you get rid of them Carlos? The rats. Never seen them so fucking big.” He opens his mouth slightly, stops, and then leans down. I can see, now that he’s closer, that he’s going to lie to me.
“There’s nothing there Pete. S’okay, there’s nothing there.”
* * * * *
Ace.
Pete presses down a two.
Three.
Jack.
Seven.
Seven. Of clubs, I notice, before I fling my hand down. “Snap!”
Peter frowns. “Oh…right.” He takes a look at his slightly pathetic bundle of cards, and then to mine, where most of the deck currently resides. He tilts one eyebrow, biting his lower lip like he’s on the tip of some great conclusion, but when he speaks it’s just to mumble under his breath, a smile in his words. “…don’t think I like this game.”
I grin, because this is the most Pete I’ve seen him since we returned from the hospital, and yeah, maybe a little bit ‘cos I like winning too.
“ ‘s not my fault you’re the only person in the world who can’t play sodding snap.” Pete glares, but his lips tilt slightly and he picks another card off his pile and on to the floor. I can feel myself being lulled into a false sense of security, of us, here, without troubles for a moment, and I have to force myself to notice the little things, like the way, even now, he’s scratching at his arm like he’s trying to break through to the vein, how his eyes dart to the door every so often and I know he’s thinking about getting out, finding drugs. I’ve got to notice these things, keep them in mind, or it’ll rip me apart when this short reprieve is over and he’s back to imagining things, cursing, ripping himself apart. I shake myself before these images fill my mind completely, and I fall too far in to enjoy the moment while it lasts. Pete looks at me questioningly, and I smile, chucking my next card down. And maybe he’s learning, or maybe I’m just looking at him, not the cards, but either way, he wins the next game.
Rating: A bit of everything really, nothing too bad
Summary: Carl has locked himself away from the world, living a life of self-imposed quarantine until a certain stranger comes crashing through his door...
Beta: the lovely rutherinahobbit
Notes: I have been fighting with LJ trying to post this for far too long, so here's hoping this works. It's too long for a single post, so I've split it in half. Second part to follow
part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13
Part 14
As I approach the phone box and the end of my road, it starts ringing. Gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies, I can tell you, maybe even more so because I know fine well who it is. Okay, so it’s not a renegade military sniper out to get me as soon as I step inside, but it is a borderline obsessive-compulsive fetishist and I think that’s enough grounds to be slightly spooked.
As soon as I step inside I lift the receiver to my ear.
“John.”
“Carl.”
So it is him. I peer out the windows of the phone box, looking around for observers.
“How the fuck did you know that I’d be here, now?”
John laughs, a joyous giggle that doesn’t sound sinister in the slightest, and somehow, that creeps me out even more than if it had been. “I’ve been calling every ten minutes since I got back to the flat.”
Oh. Well…at least he’s not psychic. Quite possibly completely fucking obsessed, but not psychic or watching me. Bet you he called every ten minutes on the dot too. Counting the seconds, or setting an alarm. That would be just one-hundred percent, bona-fide John Hassall for you. I open my mouth, but John speaks first. Odd that, usually, you’d be quicker waiting for the Continental Drift to carry you to Australia than waiting on the words of Mr Hassall.
“So, what was it that you were trying to run away from?”
“From….I….what?” Okay, he’s really starting to freak me out now. He tuts, I can hear the clicking of his tongue across the phone line.
“When you phoned me, you were quite obviously looking to escape from something. So I helpfully gave you a push back towards it. I’m guessing that’s right? You don’t want to come and stay here?”
I’m still not quite getting it, how does he know all of this? It makes far too much sense, when I had phoned John I had been running away. From Pete. And, his parting remark from our last phone conversation had been enough to make most people think twice about going anywhere near him. You might need a knife….who says that to someone? But, then again, John doesn’t exactly hold to the same logic as your Average Joe. I sometimes think that inside of his head is made up of rows upon rows on neatly arranged boxes, lines and graphs, each conversation more like an equation designed to produce his desired result. If he’d wanted me to go back to what I’d been running from, then he wouldn’t have had any qualms in picking out the exact words to do so. And, I guess in a way, he had.
I swallow, feeling odd. Fucking hell, since when have I ever been grateful for John’s actions?
“Oh…no, I don’t. Cheers.” I pause for a moment, and then add, seeing as I half feel that he’ll somehow magically guess that too “It was….my friend…he OD-ed.”
“Alive?” Fuck. No mincing words there.
“Yeah. he’s alive.” I think about Pete, back in the flat, sound asleep, and close my eyes for a moment. Thank fuck he’s alive.
“Okay.” I can almost see John closing the box on that subject in his mind and moving on. After all, he doesn’t really care. To be honest, I’m not sure if there’s anything he does care about. “I came round. You were out. Fixed your door, tidied up a bit, left groceries.”
“Er…thanks?” Since when did John become my fucking home help? There must be some reason for this. John’s not a bad guy, he really isn’t, but he never does anything without motive.
“You can repay me when you’ve got the money.” John pauses, and I’m pretty sure he’ll be grinning knowingly into the receiver. “I’m guessing you don’t have it now, right?”
“Nope. ‘fraid I’m pretty skint, to be honest.”
“Right, thought you might be, or you wouldn’t still be living in that dive.” I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from protesting. It’s not a great place, I’ll admit, but it’s mine. “Well, I’ll wait until you can get it. Unless…”
“What?” Bloody John and his fucking dramatic pauses. I can just tell he’s about to drop a bleeding anvil on my head. He’s been far too normal so far and it’s making me feel all twitchy. Like standing next to a lion with a steak over my genitals. That twitchy.
“You know what. Come round to mine. Once, and we’ll call it even.”
“I…” I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this. If John says that he’ll wait until I’ve got the money to repay him then he will, he’s a man of his word. I don’t have to do this if I don’t want to. And he’s right, I knew what he wanted almost as soon as I’d seen his note on the table. Control, that’s what John craves. About the only bloke who’ll tie you to a bed, starkers, and not be thinking with his cock. Just having that control, that’s what it’s all about for him. Not pleasure, not pain….just complete, absolute control. And he’d like that from me. I think he’s known since the first time we met, that control is what I’ve been running from my whole life, that I’m the perfect pawn for his little games.
Except, I have to be in on the ball just now, don’t I? For Pete. He can’t be in control just now, I’ll have to pull myself enough together for the both of us. I can’t afford, for him, to be this terrified mess anymore. No. I have to hold it together, one hundred percent, not crumble for a second because even that could send everything to rack and ruin, I’m sure of it. My heart is pounding loudly in my chest, and suddenly John’s proposal is sounding like a chink of light in the darkness, a invitingly beckoning prospect. I want to be there for Pete, want to help, in any way I can, and surely I can do that better if I let John purge my dark side every once in a while, yeah? Yes, yes…I think so. I don’t really know, but this whole situation, it’s like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back, I don’t know anything for sure. I can only stumble in blind and hope that I don’t punch holes in the walls.
I breathe in slowly and give John his long-awaited response. “’kay. When d’you want me?”
* * * * *
I wake, and I must have slept for hours but my body doesn’t feel like it, muscles aching as if I’ve just run a marathon. Not that….not that I’d know that anyway. More of a hundred metres man meself. Even then, walking. Oh Christ, I feel like shit.
One of my earliest memories is being in bed with a raging fever. I remember it lasting for days, sweating through blankets, head swimming, being forced to drink Lucozade before throwing up into a bucket my mum had left by my bedside. It had been terrible, my over-active young imagination had convinced itself that I was going to pop my clogs, and I’d mourned all the great and good things that I was doubtless going to do with my life. Wonder what that boy would say if he could see me now. He wouldn’t believe that I was his future. How could he? Anyway, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to how I’m feeling now, and I can feel those memories fall over my head as I open my eyes and the room seems to tilt before me, a reeling sensation in my stomach like I’m in a sea-storm and sweat beading on my brow. I’m too hot, boiling, and I kick off the blankets, getting them caught over one leg, pulling until the motion makes me feel sick and I stop, swallowing.
I feel like crying, screaming, because I’m not five years old and come down with the flu. Instead, everything’s tearing itself apart. My dad isn’t going to come in, sit on the end of my bed and play Hancock cassettes on his little portable tape player. No, no, no….
And I know that I could just end this. End it. Now. A quick phone call. Is being clean worth this? What joys are there in a drug-free life? I don’t know that I even remember.
“ ’ey….Pete.” I look up and hardly see anyone there, but still appreciate the hand that lifts to my forehead, gentle and caring, even if it does feel freezing against my hot, clammy skin. It stays there for a moment, then brushes back through my hair. I open my mouth to tell him don’t, I can feel that my barnet’s thick with sweat, unpleasant, but I don’t manage to get the words out, nausea overtaking me. My eyes flicker about, muddled brain looking for that bucket that had been placed by my bed over twenty years ago, before I throw up onto the carpet.
* * * * *
Sodding, bloody, arsing christ. I fling the cloth into the sink, turn the taps on as heavy as they’ll go and leave it like that for a moment, staring at the ceiling until I feel the first few thick drops of moisture falling onto my socks. Fuck. I dance about, trying to turn the water off before more splashes down from the overflowing sink onto the floor before spotting the problem and pulling the offending cloth out from where it’s got stuck in the drain. I take a good look at it, and then, satisfied, chuck it onto the counter. Then I lean my head onto my hands and sigh deeply through my nose, before drawing myself up straight and turning back into the room.
Pete, Pete, Pete, Pete….ah Pete. There he is. There he - oh fuck. I make it two steps across the room, heart beating fast enough that if you stuck a high pitched voice over the top it could be a dance anthem, before I realize that, actually, Pete dialling numbers into the phone isn’t really all that much of a problem. I slow, come to kneel beside him, waving the cut wire of the phone cable in front of his downturned eyes. After a moment, he looks up, and I can see the hope slowly dimming in those wide brown eyes. He’s ash pale, and his forehead and hair are visibly damp with sweat. He looks at me like I’ve betrayed him, and he might as well have punched me in the chest.
“It’s been like that for ages.” I mumble, rather hollowly, but he doesn’t take any notice at all, just clutches the crinkled bit of paper that he’s holding tighter into his palm, holding it away from me, as if -
“Hey - what’s that?” I reach forward, and he tilts himself back on his heels, clutching his hand to his chest.
“Nothing.” Yeah…right. And I’m the friggin’ Pope.
“Give it ‘ere.” He tries to manoeuvre away further as I grab for the paper, but he’s not exactly in top athletic form, and I manage to pull it from his clammy hand, straight before dodging the clumsy swing he makes for me and scuttling to my feet.
“Give it back!” He sounds like a petulant child, looks like one too, as he pulls at his hair with one hand, face reddening. I shake my head, taking a step backwards, glancing down at my prize. Just like I thought, there’s a phone number on it. No prizes for guessing who it’s for. I head for the door, pushing the paper into my pocket at the same time as checking that the key’s still there.
“No, Carl! Stop!” I turn round, frowning, and he’s pulled himself to his feet, swaying slightly and scratching at the skin of his arm. His eyes are wide. “You’re going to phone it, yeah? Just… get me a bit…. not enough that I’ll be addicted… just enough to tide me over…” he’s quite fantastically imploring, and I think it’s only the fact that I can’t tear my eyes away from the scratch, scratch of his nails against skin that saves me from the begging eyes and pathetic tone. I swallow, shake my head and take a step backwards, trying to block out his continued begging.
“Come on… I need it… just a little… I’ll still quit, I just need something to stop this.” I get within a step of the door and he suddenly switches from beseeching to furious, lunging towards me. “You’re going to kill me - is that what you want? To kill me?” His eyes are wild, panicked, and I wonder if he’s just spouting off anything or if he actually… I blink, shrugging his grasp off me, perhaps more forcefully than I should, blindly manoeuvring the key towards the lock, feeling it skate across wood before, there, I twist it, grip the handle, turning away from Pete. He clutches for my arm, moving like he can’t decide whether to pull me back or make a break out the door, the fury having melted from him.
“Don’t go Carl…I didn’t mean it…I won’t try to get more brown, just don’t, don’t-“ The slam of the door cuts him off, and I stand, head pressed against the wood, breathing deeply and shakily, in, out, in, out, until I no longer hear his voice muffled through the wood. I then lock the door, touching my hand against the scrap of paper in my pocket to remind me that I have to do something before I can go back. I’ve got the number of Pete’s dealer, there must be some way…for a minute I think about faking some kind of business call in order to trick the fucker into telling me his address, then heading over there and kicking the living daylights out of him. It would improve my mood, no doubt about it but…some voice inside my head is telling me that would be a bad idea. Telling me I have to do this the right way. I frown, not used to my conscience letting itself known quite so forcefully. Then I remember I’ve not drunk anything for what must be at least a couple of days now, and smile humourlessly before peeling myself from the door and heading off to do the right fucking thing.
* * * * *
Oh no, oh no, oh no. I gather myself up, none of me can be touching the floor, none, not a single toe, a solitary hair. It’s lined with poison, rats as big as cats, cats as big as dogs…no, fuck it…just rats, fucking big ones, crawling over each other with the twist of clawed feet and the bristle of hair, staring at me, just waiting until I move from the safety of the mattress. Well I won’t, no. I duck my head down onto my knees, but I can still hear the scrabbling sounds they make as they cross the floor, getting ever closer.
“Carl?”
Maybe he’ll get them away. Maybe. He didn’t get me brown from Wolfie when I asked, why should he do this? He obviously doesn’t care. Going out with the Wolfman’s number, coming back empty-handed, looking all pleased with himself. “Your mate won’t be a problem anymore.” Twisted grin. What did that mean? He didn’t get me any brown…but no, no, no - I don’t want it, didn’t, shouldn’t, I fucking do. At least he came back….I was so terrified that he wouldn’t come back…
“Hmm?” He sounds tired…is that my fault? I shake myself, blood solidifying in my veins, I’ve got to move so it doesn’t freeze in place forever. Maybe there’s something wrong with me…maybe I need the drugs, need them to keep the blood pushing round. Carl would get it then, wouldn’t he? No, no…it can’t be much longer, I can hold on, can’t be much longer.
“What is it, eh? Pete?” I feel a hand on my shoulder. His voice is warmer now, nearer. I slowly lift my head up….oh Christ, they’re still there…forcing myself to keep my eyes open, I point a finger straight at a grey, feral rodent…I’ve always been fucking terrified of rats.
“Them.”
Carl looks down, frowning, then back at me. His face is a strange mix of pity and curiosity. “Can you get rid of them Carlos? The rats. Never seen them so fucking big.” He opens his mouth slightly, stops, and then leans down. I can see, now that he’s closer, that he’s going to lie to me.
“There’s nothing there Pete. S’okay, there’s nothing there.”
* * * * *
Ace.
Pete presses down a two.
Three.
Jack.
Seven.
Seven. Of clubs, I notice, before I fling my hand down. “Snap!”
Peter frowns. “Oh…right.” He takes a look at his slightly pathetic bundle of cards, and then to mine, where most of the deck currently resides. He tilts one eyebrow, biting his lower lip like he’s on the tip of some great conclusion, but when he speaks it’s just to mumble under his breath, a smile in his words. “…don’t think I like this game.”
I grin, because this is the most Pete I’ve seen him since we returned from the hospital, and yeah, maybe a little bit ‘cos I like winning too.
“ ‘s not my fault you’re the only person in the world who can’t play sodding snap.” Pete glares, but his lips tilt slightly and he picks another card off his pile and on to the floor. I can feel myself being lulled into a false sense of security, of us, here, without troubles for a moment, and I have to force myself to notice the little things, like the way, even now, he’s scratching at his arm like he’s trying to break through to the vein, how his eyes dart to the door every so often and I know he’s thinking about getting out, finding drugs. I’ve got to notice these things, keep them in mind, or it’ll rip me apart when this short reprieve is over and he’s back to imagining things, cursing, ripping himself apart. I shake myself before these images fill my mind completely, and I fall too far in to enjoy the moment while it lasts. Pete looks at me questioningly, and I smile, chucking my next card down. And maybe he’s learning, or maybe I’m just looking at him, not the cards, but either way, he wins the next game.