Debaser by Max Frick
immediately looked to Billy for answers. Billy, though, was still asking questions.
‘Who dz’you think?’ he said.
‘What? How could I fuckin feed him?’ said Tony impatiently, peeling the joint off his lip. ‘There’s nothin in!’
‘You couldz’ve got him somethin in Asdza.’
‘When could I?’
Billy pointed to the Asda carrier bag at the foot of the small table. In it scallop-edged bottle tops, cylinders and semi-circles – representative of a dozen or more bottles and cans – bulged out at every angle from the accommodating green and white plastic.
‘Em, when you were gettin that,’ he said.
Ryan had rocked the figure towards him and was craning his neck around it.
‘Ha ha! Nice one!’ he said, nodding. ‘I ‘eard about this. This come from that shopping centre, didn’t it? Me manager told me what ‘appened. ‘E ‘eard some crazed fan ‘ad broken in and stolen it. Ha ha! Nice one!’
At once Tony was up on his feet and limping over, and any awkwardness he may still have been feeling in the company of so famous a celebrity was effaced by such a show of matey over-familiarity that it bordered on the sinister. He even dared venture that fatherly arm.
‘You like that, eh?’ he said. ‘A moment of madness, mate. A moment of madness. I just couldn’t fuckin help myself. Come and sit yourself down and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m Tony, by the way. Tony Drake. But my mates call me Drako. Smoke?’
He took three quick-fire draws on the joint and handed the roach to Ryan.
‘Here, toke on that. Get you fuckin started, at least. By the looks of that cunt I’d say you’ve got a wee bit catchin up to do, eh? And you’ll have to forgive my, em, rudeness before. I must admit I was a wee bit fuckin starstruck. It’s not every day you get to meet a fuckin livin legend, right?’
Ryan looked suitably humble, then threw a reciprocal arm.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It ‘appens all the time. All part of...’
‘Is that right? interrupted Tony. 'Well, like I say, you sit yourself down there and relax. Unwind a bit after your, em, gig. I’m just goin to have a wee word with Billy here, in the kitchen, eh? And I’ll bring us out another couple of glasses. This calls for a fuckin celebration! A wee fuckin after-show party!'
Billy had settled back into his chair, oblivious to Tony’s prompting. But a skimming slap across his crown soon roused him, and he moodily turned to see himself being benignly gestured into the kitchen.
The door closed gently behind them.
‘How the...? What the...?’ implored Tony with look, thumbing over his shoulder at the door.
‘ I’ll tzell you later,’ said Billy.
‘Later?’ echoed Tony, straining to keep his voice low. ‘Tell me fuckin now!’
‘There’s really nothin tzoo tzell.’
‘Nothin to tell?’ echoed Tony again, again thumbing. ‘How the fuck is there nothin to tell?’
Billy simply shrugged.
Tony was forced to check his frustration.
‘All right, fuck it!’ he said. ‘We’ve not got fuckin time for this!’
He was foraging in his pockets for the cocaine and casting about for an uncluttered, non-stick, crumbless, sugar free surface. Ruling out the linoleum floor he impatiently drew aside from off the cooker the frying pan and two pots and lowered its smoked-glass lid. Atop the now two-dimensional spits and splashes of its underside he tapped and shook the entire contents out of the last remaining small plastic bag, splitting with his bankcard the resultant heap of white powder into two thin lines about a foot long apiece. Quickly snorting his own share, he passed the baton to Billy.
‘Here,’ he said sniffing. ‘You might want to fortify yourself with that.’
While Billy was stooped over the cooker Tony made a cursory search of the overhead cupboards for some everyday household object likely suited to crushing and grinding. Finding none, he tried the sink, delving in to dislodge a mug by its handle from very near the bottom. A cascade of dirty dishes noisily plugged the gap. Billy stood bolt upright inhaling deeply and tottered back a step or two, at one and the same time a little more sober and a lot less straight.
‘Man!’ he said, blowing. ‘That should keep us goin for a wee while, at least, eh?’
‘Right,’ said Tony, wiping the base of the mug on the leg of his jeans, ‘go and keep him company. I’ll be out in a minute... Wait! Grab a couple of glasses, will you?’
Billy rinsed two pint tumblers under the tap, inspecting the pitiful state of his eyes in the darkened glass of the window. The pub lights were out. Tony had pulled from his pocket the bag of pills and was just about to empty half of them at least onto the lid of the cooker, when Billy, on his way out, halted at the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said turning. ‘Fortify myself against what?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Tony. ‘Just go and keep him company.’
Billy had dragged his chair round to face Ryan on the couch, and Dooly now lay forlornly behind it, all but forgotten. He confined himself to the apathetic twitchings of eyebrows and ears when Tony re-entered, holding what looked like a full, a very full, bag of cocaine.
‘Fuck sake, guys! Help yourself to my cans, why don’t you? And don’t fuckin bother to pour me one, eh?’
Two newly poured pints of lager stood on the table, beside Tony’s own almost empty glass.
‘Ha ha! Only jokin, Ryan, mate. Shift up a bit, will you?’
Ryan shifted along a cushion and Tony sat himself down, slapping the drugs onto the table. Palms on knees, elbows out, he defiantly faced his neighbour.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘can you stay till the death, or is your mother expectin you home?’
Ryan laughed knowingly. Banter.
‘I’m ‘ere till the death,’ he replied, meeting Tony’s stare.
‘Ha ha! That’s the fuckin spirit! Just let me sort myself out with a drink and then I’ll do the honours, eh? But none of this just fuckin lager shite! If ever there was a night for cocktails…!’
Tony dipped into the bag at his feet, coming up with a can of lager, and, hooking his forefinger underneath the ring-pull, peeled it open. He filled his glass, crushed the empty can in his hand and casually tossed it, past Billy’s left shoulder. He again dipped into the bag, producing first one bottle, then another, of Smirnoff Ice, knocking off their tops one at a time on the table’s edge.
‘Right, neck a fair bit out of your glasses,’ he urged, downing about a third out of his own.
And he split the two bottles more or less evenly between the three of them, the greyish vodka mix clouding the amber lager.
‘Power shandys, man! Two or three of these and your fucked!’
Ryan held his glass aloft, inspecting the tincture.
‘Well, in that case,’ he said, ‘‘ere’s to two or three of these.’
‘Eh, aye,’ said Billy. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers!’ said Tony with a straight face. ‘Now, I’ll do up a few lines and we’ll get this show on the road, eh? How did you like playin here, by the way?’
‘Oh, yeah! Loved it!’ said Ryan. ‘Top town. Top people. Wicked atmosphere! The crowd were well up for it. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? The fans. If they’re ‘appy I’m ‘appy.’
‘Aye,’ said Billy, ‘it was a good night. You should’ve been there.’
Tony was patting his pockets.
‘Very fuckin funny!’ he said. ‘Give us your bank card. I’ve left mine in the kitchen.'
Motioning halt to Billy, Ryan guilelessly produced his wallet. Flipping it open he selected his platinum American Express card and handed it to Tony.
‘So you didn’t go tonight, then?' He inquired, flipping closed and re-pocketing the wallet.
‘Oh, I fuckin went, all right!’ replied Tony, inspecting the card front and back and trying not to look impressed. ‘I didn’t get fuckin in, though!’
‘Why was that?’ asked Ryan concernedl
y.
Billy suppressed a snigger.
‘Cause I was wearin fuckin trainers, that’s why was that!’
‘Ah!’ said Ryan.
He self-consciously drew in his feet, back-heeling the plates on the floor. A fly spiralled up towards the light bulb.
‘Anyway,’ continued Tony, ‘forget about fuckin that. The real party starts here, eh? So, here. Knock yourself out. The biggest one’s yours.’
The lines were ready. Ryan took the rolled up ten pound note that Tony was now handing him, and leaning forward, boldly inhaled the longest of the three. He sat back up sniffing and swallowing and nodding discerningly, fighting hard not to allow an acute burning sensation and acrid taste to reveal themselves in a telltale expression.
Tony watched the water well in his eyes.
‘Good stuff, eh?’ he said. ‘It might not be up to your usual fuckin rock star quality, but it’s good enough for the boys.’
‘Well,’ croaked Ryan through his tears, ‘if it’s good enough for the boys...’
‘Billy?’ said Tony, holding out the tenner.
'No way, man,’ said Billy. ‘I’m done. Enough is enough, eh? In fact I could maybe do with one or two of the pills you got, just to take the edge off.’
Tony froze, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Em, suit yourself,’ he said eventually, casually, pulling the bag from his pocket and tossing it to Billy.
Billy caught it and looked at it surprised.
‘Where’s the rest of them?’ he said.
‘What rest of them?’ said Tony. ‘That’s all I bought.’
‘No it’s not. You bought thirty.’
‘No I never. I bought fifteen.’
‘You bought thirty at half price. I was there.’
‘I took them,’ said Tony.
‘You took them? Fifteen of them? When?’
‘What the fuck does it matter when? I took them and that’s fuckin that! Twenty fuckin questions, man! Do you want them or not?’
‘All right, all right, I was just askin.’
Billy counted four of the pills into the palm of his hand, like jacks, and clapped them into his mouth. Setting the bag on the table, he took up his glass and washed them down. Tony turned back to Ryan.
‘All the more coke for us then,’ he stated, ‘eh, mate?’
Ryan was reaching for his glass.
‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
His acute burning sensation quickly cooled to a warm inner glow and the drugs themselves stimulated a strong desire for more drugs, and more drugs perpetuated that desire and soon he and Tony were embroiled in a display of virile, manly posturing and gung-ho abandon, mutual back slapping and brinkmanship, drinking and inhaling freely and deeply, each regaling the other with anecdotes culled from their vastly different lives. To an appropriately sombre-faced Ryan Tony told of ‘survival’ on the streets, invariably colouring his tales a shade or two darker than actuality. And Ryan would counter with some tenuously connected story drawn from his ‘life on the road’, toning down the glamour and embellishing, if not completely inventing, the seedier aspects, to which Tony listened patiently, fittingly attentive, even laughing heartily if the punch line so required.
Ironically, in his heightened state Billy bore only partial witness to the scene playing out before him, receding further and further into himself until every now and again some sudden noise or movement – the rustle of the carrier bag or the pshht! of a ring-pull, a can or bottle arcing past his head or the tap, tap, tapping of plastic on wood (alerting him to the replenishment of lines that had, it seemed, only a moment ago been prepared) – some noise or movement would suddenly sharpen his focus and he would observe for a time the behaviour of the two protagonists.
Though both were, in differing degree, playing against type, it was Tony’s performance, as genial host, that was the more convincing of the two – his motivation springing, as it did, from a much deeper source. Ryan’s own performance, something like devil-may-care rock star, was too forced, less heartfelt, and though, as the night wore on, drink, drugs and Tony’s ‘hospitality’ – not least the hospitality – had instilled in him a self-belief, a false confidence that enabled him to tackle this role with growing assurance, he never looked entirely relaxed, was never quite himself. An apt parallel might be that of a lounge singer, a crooner, who only from studying the greats has learned which gesture to match with which line of the particular song he is singing, to better impress his audience. And while he, Ryan, never stooped to anything of the crassness of a limp-wristed sashay or a wink-point-wry smile combo, the overall effect was more or less the same, his insincerity was never not apparent. Tony, no doubt, would be quick to label him a dissembler, someone giving the people what they want for his own ends. He might even point to tonight as conclusive proof, hard evidence, incontrovertible…well, he might even say ‘I told you so’. But as far as Billy was concerned Ryan’s insincerity was attributable simply to an eagerness to please in the company of strangers. He was trying far too hard to make a good impression, or, at least, not to make a bad one.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
He was slouching now, Ryan, with his legs outstretched, one arm dangling over the chair arm, drawing limply on a joint that someone, sometime must have built. The best of both worlds palpitated pleasantly within his breast, fuelling a serene smile. He was famous, and rich beyond his wildest dreams, but tonight he had acquired what he had long coveted most – acceptance. He truly felt, for the first time in his life, like just one of the lads.
‘So, eh...’
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘...what were you inside for, by the way?’ inquired Tony earnestly.
Ryan rolled his head round on the couch back to face him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
His speech was becoming sluggish.
‘“I’ve been through hell, I’ve been to jail”,’ quoted Tony. ‘I just wondered what you were in for.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Ryan. ‘Yeah... No, I were... I were never in jail.’
‘Ah!’ said Tony.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘Yeah... That lyric just, you know... Just seemed to fit.’
‘You mean it fuckin rhymed!’
Ryan shifted uneasily.
‘Well... Ha ha! No, em... That’s not quite, em... I was just, you know, trying to capture a feeling.’
‘A feelin you’ve never felt!’ said Tony.
‘Em, yeah, but... Ha ha... I mean a...a general feeling...a mood...a...’
Tony was nodding slowly.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘A general feeling... Funny, cause, eh...’
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘...when I was inside for GBH I remember it being a very fuckin specific feelin!’
He quickly took a line and sat back up, staring.
Ryan had affected his sombre look.
‘What...did you, em, do?’ he asked.
Tony continued to stare for a bit, then softened his gaze.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t exactly feel like fuckin singin about it, but let’s just say that some cunt thought he was a wee bit fuckin special and I showed him that he wasn’t, eh? Anyway, mate, here. Get another line into you. Don’t be fuckin bowin out on me!’
With no small effort, and a cordial helping hand from Tony, Ryan sat forward and took the line, then fell back to slouching.
Tony was getting to his feet.
‘I’ve got a few songs of my own,’ he said. Do you want to hear one of them?’
Ryan again rolled his head round, and through the space vacated on the couch looked towards the HI-FI and the scattering of CDs around it.
‘Em...yeah,’ he said, ‘...sure.’
But this it seemed was to be a live performance. Furthermore, it had already begun.
It was a performance that Billy had seen countless times before – the wide-legged stance and angry sc
owl, the raw splenetic bawling, the imaginary guitar and drums – so without so much as a sideways glance at Tony he tranquilly sat gauging Ryan’s reaction.
Ryan, despite his best efforts to widen intently his increasingly glassy eyes, was, in a word, bewildered. The song’s abrupt beginning had caught him off guard and its frenetic rhythm hurtled on ahead of him, leaving him little hope, in his torpor, of ever catching it up. Nor was he faring any better with the melody (such as it was) or with the lyrics – the thick accent, furious tempo and screaming delivery rendering them practically indecipherable. And even though they were hurled directly at him, sometimes so violently and from such close range that he was forced to bury his head as far as he could into the couch back, he managed only to catch their residual spray, the words themselves escaping him. Consequently, through the now rapidly thickening fog in his brain, only a vague shadowy outline of the overall composition was discernible. But at least the repetitive nature of its ending enabled him to understand something:
‘...SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF… YOU!!’
At this last ‘you’ a classic punk rock scissor-kick caught the edge of the table and spun it legs over top, sending its contents spilling onto the floor. Ignoring any pain it caused him, and Billy’s dispassionate protests, Tony stood waiting – sweating and out of breath – for the star’s professional opinion.
Ryan, at first, tried nodding, but found that he could not, except with considerable difficulty, lift his head up from off the couch back. So he offered instead a few noncommittal remarks.
‘Em...yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s... Yeah. With...the right...you know...’
His speech was more sluggish than ever.
‘...the right, em... Maybe I could...speak to people and...’
Contemptuously, Tony looked him up and down.
‘Don’t you fuckin patronise me!’ he growled. ‘What the fuck do you, or your fuckin ‘people’, know about music?’
Ryan never even flinched. And if he was somewhat taken aback, by this sudden shift in Tony’s behaviour, he did not, perhaps could not, let it show. But the comment itself had struck him as particularly absurd, and he managed, just about, to raise an incredulous eyebrow. Tony of course was more than happy to elaborate.
The eyebrow withstood slur after slur – even rising higher at one especially impertinent remark – until Ryan could hold it no longer, and his incredulousness was succeeded by a complacent half-smile, less strenuous to maintain and not entirely dissimilar (in appearance only) to his serene smile of but a short time ago. It was a look sure to leave Tony in no doubt whatever that his criticisms, foundless to begin with, had become frankly ridiculous, and, what’s more, were having absolutely no effect. After all, his (Ryan’s) achievements in the music industry spoke for themselves: a career spanning over eight years; a string of top ten albums; four consecutive number one singles, as a solo artist; record breaking attendances at his concerts and innumerable awards. And, raising each of these points in turn, he would effortlessly and categorically refute the charges levelled against him. But first, to clarify in his befuddled, drug-addled mind the precise nature of those charges, he would have
‘Who dz’you think?’ he said.
‘What? How could I fuckin feed him?’ said Tony impatiently, peeling the joint off his lip. ‘There’s nothin in!’
‘You couldz’ve got him somethin in Asdza.’
‘When could I?’
Billy pointed to the Asda carrier bag at the foot of the small table. In it scallop-edged bottle tops, cylinders and semi-circles – representative of a dozen or more bottles and cans – bulged out at every angle from the accommodating green and white plastic.
‘Em, when you were gettin that,’ he said.
Ryan had rocked the figure towards him and was craning his neck around it.
‘Ha ha! Nice one!’ he said, nodding. ‘I ‘eard about this. This come from that shopping centre, didn’t it? Me manager told me what ‘appened. ‘E ‘eard some crazed fan ‘ad broken in and stolen it. Ha ha! Nice one!’
At once Tony was up on his feet and limping over, and any awkwardness he may still have been feeling in the company of so famous a celebrity was effaced by such a show of matey over-familiarity that it bordered on the sinister. He even dared venture that fatherly arm.
‘You like that, eh?’ he said. ‘A moment of madness, mate. A moment of madness. I just couldn’t fuckin help myself. Come and sit yourself down and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m Tony, by the way. Tony Drake. But my mates call me Drako. Smoke?’
He took three quick-fire draws on the joint and handed the roach to Ryan.
‘Here, toke on that. Get you fuckin started, at least. By the looks of that cunt I’d say you’ve got a wee bit catchin up to do, eh? And you’ll have to forgive my, em, rudeness before. I must admit I was a wee bit fuckin starstruck. It’s not every day you get to meet a fuckin livin legend, right?’
Ryan looked suitably humble, then threw a reciprocal arm.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘It ‘appens all the time. All part of...’
‘Is that right? interrupted Tony. 'Well, like I say, you sit yourself down there and relax. Unwind a bit after your, em, gig. I’m just goin to have a wee word with Billy here, in the kitchen, eh? And I’ll bring us out another couple of glasses. This calls for a fuckin celebration! A wee fuckin after-show party!'
Billy had settled back into his chair, oblivious to Tony’s prompting. But a skimming slap across his crown soon roused him, and he moodily turned to see himself being benignly gestured into the kitchen.
The door closed gently behind them.
‘How the...? What the...?’ implored Tony with look, thumbing over his shoulder at the door.
‘ I’ll tzell you later,’ said Billy.
‘Later?’ echoed Tony, straining to keep his voice low. ‘Tell me fuckin now!’
‘There’s really nothin tzoo tzell.’
‘Nothin to tell?’ echoed Tony again, again thumbing. ‘How the fuck is there nothin to tell?’
Billy simply shrugged.
Tony was forced to check his frustration.
‘All right, fuck it!’ he said. ‘We’ve not got fuckin time for this!’
He was foraging in his pockets for the cocaine and casting about for an uncluttered, non-stick, crumbless, sugar free surface. Ruling out the linoleum floor he impatiently drew aside from off the cooker the frying pan and two pots and lowered its smoked-glass lid. Atop the now two-dimensional spits and splashes of its underside he tapped and shook the entire contents out of the last remaining small plastic bag, splitting with his bankcard the resultant heap of white powder into two thin lines about a foot long apiece. Quickly snorting his own share, he passed the baton to Billy.
‘Here,’ he said sniffing. ‘You might want to fortify yourself with that.’
While Billy was stooped over the cooker Tony made a cursory search of the overhead cupboards for some everyday household object likely suited to crushing and grinding. Finding none, he tried the sink, delving in to dislodge a mug by its handle from very near the bottom. A cascade of dirty dishes noisily plugged the gap. Billy stood bolt upright inhaling deeply and tottered back a step or two, at one and the same time a little more sober and a lot less straight.
‘Man!’ he said, blowing. ‘That should keep us goin for a wee while, at least, eh?’
‘Right,’ said Tony, wiping the base of the mug on the leg of his jeans, ‘go and keep him company. I’ll be out in a minute... Wait! Grab a couple of glasses, will you?’
Billy rinsed two pint tumblers under the tap, inspecting the pitiful state of his eyes in the darkened glass of the window. The pub lights were out. Tony had pulled from his pocket the bag of pills and was just about to empty half of them at least onto the lid of the cooker, when Billy, on his way out, halted at the door.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said turning. ‘Fortify myself against what?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Tony. ‘Just go and keep him company.’
Billy had dragged his chair round to face Ryan on the couch, and Dooly now lay forlornly behind it, all but forgotten. He confined himself to the apathetic twitchings of eyebrows and ears when Tony re-entered, holding what looked like a full, a very full, bag of cocaine.
‘Fuck sake, guys! Help yourself to my cans, why don’t you? And don’t fuckin bother to pour me one, eh?’
Two newly poured pints of lager stood on the table, beside Tony’s own almost empty glass.
‘Ha ha! Only jokin, Ryan, mate. Shift up a bit, will you?’
Ryan shifted along a cushion and Tony sat himself down, slapping the drugs onto the table. Palms on knees, elbows out, he defiantly faced his neighbour.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘can you stay till the death, or is your mother expectin you home?’
Ryan laughed knowingly. Banter.
‘I’m ‘ere till the death,’ he replied, meeting Tony’s stare.
‘Ha ha! That’s the fuckin spirit! Just let me sort myself out with a drink and then I’ll do the honours, eh? But none of this just fuckin lager shite! If ever there was a night for cocktails…!’
Tony dipped into the bag at his feet, coming up with a can of lager, and, hooking his forefinger underneath the ring-pull, peeled it open. He filled his glass, crushed the empty can in his hand and casually tossed it, past Billy’s left shoulder. He again dipped into the bag, producing first one bottle, then another, of Smirnoff Ice, knocking off their tops one at a time on the table’s edge.
‘Right, neck a fair bit out of your glasses,’ he urged, downing about a third out of his own.
And he split the two bottles more or less evenly between the three of them, the greyish vodka mix clouding the amber lager.
‘Power shandys, man! Two or three of these and your fucked!’
Ryan held his glass aloft, inspecting the tincture.
‘Well, in that case,’ he said, ‘‘ere’s to two or three of these.’
‘Eh, aye,’ said Billy. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers!’ said Tony with a straight face. ‘Now, I’ll do up a few lines and we’ll get this show on the road, eh? How did you like playin here, by the way?’
‘Oh, yeah! Loved it!’ said Ryan. ‘Top town. Top people. Wicked atmosphere! The crowd were well up for it. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? The fans. If they’re ‘appy I’m ‘appy.’
‘Aye,’ said Billy, ‘it was a good night. You should’ve been there.’
Tony was patting his pockets.
‘Very fuckin funny!’ he said. ‘Give us your bank card. I’ve left mine in the kitchen.'
Motioning halt to Billy, Ryan guilelessly produced his wallet. Flipping it open he selected his platinum American Express card and handed it to Tony.
‘So you didn’t go tonight, then?' He inquired, flipping closed and re-pocketing the wallet.
‘Oh, I fuckin went, all right!’ replied Tony, inspecting the card front and back and trying not to look impressed. ‘I didn’t get fuckin in, though!’
‘Why was that?’ asked Ryan concernedl
Billy suppressed a snigger.
‘Cause I was wearin fuckin trainers, that’s why was that!’
‘Ah!’ said Ryan.
He self-consciously drew in his feet, back-heeling the plates on the floor. A fly spiralled up towards the light bulb.
‘Anyway,’ continued Tony, ‘forget about fuckin that. The real party starts here, eh? So, here. Knock yourself out. The biggest one’s yours.’
The lines were ready. Ryan took the rolled up ten pound note that Tony was now handing him, and leaning forward, boldly inhaled the longest of the three. He sat back up sniffing and swallowing and nodding discerningly, fighting hard not to allow an acute burning sensation and acrid taste to reveal themselves in a telltale expression.
Tony watched the water well in his eyes.
‘Good stuff, eh?’ he said. ‘It might not be up to your usual fuckin rock star quality, but it’s good enough for the boys.’
‘Well,’ croaked Ryan through his tears, ‘if it’s good enough for the boys...’
‘Billy?’ said Tony, holding out the tenner.
'No way, man,’ said Billy. ‘I’m done. Enough is enough, eh? In fact I could maybe do with one or two of the pills you got, just to take the edge off.’
Tony froze, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Em, suit yourself,’ he said eventually, casually, pulling the bag from his pocket and tossing it to Billy.
Billy caught it and looked at it surprised.
‘Where’s the rest of them?’ he said.
‘What rest of them?’ said Tony. ‘That’s all I bought.’
‘No it’s not. You bought thirty.’
‘No I never. I bought fifteen.’
‘You bought thirty at half price. I was there.’
‘I took them,’ said Tony.
‘You took them? Fifteen of them? When?’
‘What the fuck does it matter when? I took them and that’s fuckin that! Twenty fuckin questions, man! Do you want them or not?’
‘All right, all right, I was just askin.’
Billy counted four of the pills into the palm of his hand, like jacks, and clapped them into his mouth. Setting the bag on the table, he took up his glass and washed them down. Tony turned back to Ryan.
‘All the more coke for us then,’ he stated, ‘eh, mate?’
Ryan was reaching for his glass.
‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
His acute burning sensation quickly cooled to a warm inner glow and the drugs themselves stimulated a strong desire for more drugs, and more drugs perpetuated that desire and soon he and Tony were embroiled in a display of virile, manly posturing and gung-ho abandon, mutual back slapping and brinkmanship, drinking and inhaling freely and deeply, each regaling the other with anecdotes culled from their vastly different lives. To an appropriately sombre-faced Ryan Tony told of ‘survival’ on the streets, invariably colouring his tales a shade or two darker than actuality. And Ryan would counter with some tenuously connected story drawn from his ‘life on the road’, toning down the glamour and embellishing, if not completely inventing, the seedier aspects, to which Tony listened patiently, fittingly attentive, even laughing heartily if the punch line so required.
Ironically, in his heightened state Billy bore only partial witness to the scene playing out before him, receding further and further into himself until every now and again some sudden noise or movement – the rustle of the carrier bag or the pshht! of a ring-pull, a can or bottle arcing past his head or the tap, tap, tapping of plastic on wood (alerting him to the replenishment of lines that had, it seemed, only a moment ago been prepared) – some noise or movement would suddenly sharpen his focus and he would observe for a time the behaviour of the two protagonists.
Though both were, in differing degree, playing against type, it was Tony’s performance, as genial host, that was the more convincing of the two – his motivation springing, as it did, from a much deeper source. Ryan’s own performance, something like devil-may-care rock star, was too forced, less heartfelt, and though, as the night wore on, drink, drugs and Tony’s ‘hospitality’ – not least the hospitality – had instilled in him a self-belief, a false confidence that enabled him to tackle this role with growing assurance, he never looked entirely relaxed, was never quite himself. An apt parallel might be that of a lounge singer, a crooner, who only from studying the greats has learned which gesture to match with which line of the particular song he is singing, to better impress his audience. And while he, Ryan, never stooped to anything of the crassness of a limp-wristed sashay or a wink-point-wry smile combo, the overall effect was more or less the same, his insincerity was never not apparent. Tony, no doubt, would be quick to label him a dissembler, someone giving the people what they want for his own ends. He might even point to tonight as conclusive proof, hard evidence, incontrovertible…well, he might even say ‘I told you so’. But as far as Billy was concerned Ryan’s insincerity was attributable simply to an eagerness to please in the company of strangers. He was trying far too hard to make a good impression, or, at least, not to make a bad one.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
He was slouching now, Ryan, with his legs outstretched, one arm dangling over the chair arm, drawing limply on a joint that someone, sometime must have built. The best of both worlds palpitated pleasantly within his breast, fuelling a serene smile. He was famous, and rich beyond his wildest dreams, but tonight he had acquired what he had long coveted most – acceptance. He truly felt, for the first time in his life, like just one of the lads.
‘So, eh...’
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘...what were you inside for, by the way?’ inquired Tony earnestly.
Ryan rolled his head round on the couch back to face him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
His speech was becoming sluggish.
‘“I’ve been through hell, I’ve been to jail”,’ quoted Tony. ‘I just wondered what you were in for.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Ryan. ‘Yeah... No, I were... I were never in jail.’
‘Ah!’ said Tony.
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘Yeah... That lyric just, you know... Just seemed to fit.’
‘You mean it fuckin rhymed!’
Ryan shifted uneasily.
‘Well... Ha ha! No, em... That’s not quite, em... I was just, you know, trying to capture a feeling.’
‘A feelin you’ve never felt!’ said Tony.
‘Em, yeah, but... Ha ha... I mean a...a general feeling...a mood...a...’
Tony was nodding slowly.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘A general feeling... Funny, cause, eh...’
Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
‘...when I was inside for GBH I remember it being a very fuckin specific feelin!’
He quickly took a line and sat back up, staring.
Ryan had affected his sombre look.
‘What...did you, em, do?’ he asked.
Tony continued to stare for a bit, then softened his gaze.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t exactly feel like fuckin singin about it, but let’s just say that some cunt thought he was a wee bit fuckin special and I showed him that he wasn’t, eh? Anyway, mate, here. Get another line into you. Don’t be fuckin bowin out on me!’
With no small effort, and a cordial helping hand from Tony, Ryan sat forward and took the line, then fell back to slouching.
Tony was getting to his feet.
‘I’ve got a few songs of my own,’ he said. Do you want to hear one of them?’
Ryan again rolled his head round, and through the space vacated on the couch looked towards the HI-FI and the scattering of CDs around it.
‘Em...yeah,’ he said, ‘...sure.’
But this it seemed was to be a live performance. Furthermore, it had already begun.
It was a performance that Billy had seen countless times before – the wide-legged stance and angry sc
Ryan, despite his best efforts to widen intently his increasingly glassy eyes, was, in a word, bewildered. The song’s abrupt beginning had caught him off guard and its frenetic rhythm hurtled on ahead of him, leaving him little hope, in his torpor, of ever catching it up. Nor was he faring any better with the melody (such as it was) or with the lyrics – the thick accent, furious tempo and screaming delivery rendering them practically indecipherable. And even though they were hurled directly at him, sometimes so violently and from such close range that he was forced to bury his head as far as he could into the couch back, he managed only to catch their residual spray, the words themselves escaping him. Consequently, through the now rapidly thickening fog in his brain, only a vague shadowy outline of the overall composition was discernible. But at least the repetitive nature of its ending enabled him to understand something:
‘...SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! SNIFFIN GLUE TILL MY FACE GOES BLUE! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! ALL BECAUSE OF… YOU!!’
At this last ‘you’ a classic punk rock scissor-kick caught the edge of the table and spun it legs over top, sending its contents spilling onto the floor. Ignoring any pain it caused him, and Billy’s dispassionate protests, Tony stood waiting – sweating and out of breath – for the star’s professional opinion.
Ryan, at first, tried nodding, but found that he could not, except with considerable difficulty, lift his head up from off the couch back. So he offered instead a few noncommittal remarks.
‘Em...yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s... Yeah. With...the right...you know...’
His speech was more sluggish than ever.
‘...the right, em... Maybe I could...speak to people and...’
Contemptuously, Tony looked him up and down.
‘Don’t you fuckin patronise me!’ he growled. ‘What the fuck do you, or your fuckin ‘people’, know about music?’
Ryan never even flinched. And if he was somewhat taken aback, by this sudden shift in Tony’s behaviour, he did not, perhaps could not, let it show. But the comment itself had struck him as particularly absurd, and he managed, just about, to raise an incredulous eyebrow. Tony of course was more than happy to elaborate.
The eyebrow withstood slur after slur – even rising higher at one especially impertinent remark – until Ryan could hold it no longer, and his incredulousness was succeeded by a complacent half-smile, less strenuous to maintain and not entirely dissimilar (in appearance only) to his serene smile of but a short time ago. It was a look sure to leave Tony in no doubt whatever that his criticisms, foundless to begin with, had become frankly ridiculous, and, what’s more, were having absolutely no effect. After all, his (Ryan’s) achievements in the music industry spoke for themselves: a career spanning over eight years; a string of top ten albums; four consecutive number one singles, as a solo artist; record breaking attendances at his concerts and innumerable awards. And, raising each of these points in turn, he would effortlessly and categorically refute the charges levelled against him. But first, to clarify in his befuddled, drug-addled mind the precise nature of those charges, he would have