Ten Storey Love Song (20 page)

£
2.49 cake out of the freezer compartment, then chooses a route through the aisles to the counter without coming into contact with other customers. As he walks, each step seems so fake and deliberate and clumsy, and he begins to panic, wondering whether to say, ‘Just this, thanks,’ or, ‘Hi,’ or, ‘How are you?’ or nothing at all to the guy serving. He wonders why he’s being so anxious, but it’s hard to switch it off. When he finally makes it to the desk, he squeaks, ‘Hi, alright, how are you, just this ta,’ but the assistant just stares right through him, bagging up the gateau then putting out his hand like a zombie. It makes his tummy churn. Bobby the Artist passes him a fiver and waits nervously for his change, then darts back to the flat as fast as he can without getting squashed by cars. Scrabbling up the staircase, Bobby tries to breathe steady and not faint all the way back down to ground floor. He clicks open the door softly, then takes off his kangaroo top and stuffs it behind the radiator. He feels so ravaged from one minor excursion to the shop, he has to scamper through to the bedroom and light up his Coca-Cola bong. Pamela foolishly left her ounce of tac round the other night, and Bobby shudders as he sparks up the manky chillum bit. Last Tuesday, him and Pamela felt like Sooty and Sweep in a Chinese opium den, all tingling and giggling and playing hide-and-seek in the green swampy smoke. Teeth chattering, Bobby the Artist does occasionally think he overdoes it a bit with drugs, but they’ve been nothing but friendly to him in the past. To compensate for such weird weird anxieties, he stuffs in a bit extra tac, then lights her up again and sucks the living daylights out of the gloopy Coke bottle. Aah, he feels a lot better after that, and he trundles back into the lounge with the chocolate gateau, smiling. It’s becoming lovely and dusky outside. Scratching a lump under the greasy mop-top, Bobby switches on the Dr Seuss lamp-stand, then suddenly his heart pops inside him and the Sarah Lee cake drops from his hand. Splat! For some reason, there’s skulls all over the carpet this evening. Surely it wasn’t like that when they first bought it from DFS? Panicking, Bobby the Artist rubs his eyes to shreds, wondering if it’s a mirage. He gets down on his hands and knees, digging his nails into the soft weave. He screams. Lo and behold, there’s six thousand tiny skull-and-crossbones embedded in the carpet, and if you listen to them really closely they’re all laughing at you. Or is that just the boiler filling up? Bobby the Artist leaps backwards onto the sofa. His eyes are bulging out of their sockets, and he has a little cardiac arrest, choking for air. Is this his punishment for taking too many pills? He shivers. Other things around the room are different too: the fuchsia cushions are all bloody organs like hearts and lungs and livers and spleens, the radiators are all tombstones, and there are faces in the curtains that look a bit like Michael Jackson. Trembling, Bobby the Artist sees in perfect clarity him losing all his marbles plop-plop-plop down a porcelain bathtub. ‘Fucking hell,’ he mumbles. How charming, for his head to be doing things like this to him! Sitting against the pink glass settee, all the colour drains from poor Bobby’s face. He coughs. Centipedes rush into his brain, guzzling holes through the tender pink flesh. Flapping his arms about, Bobby takes a few attempts to clamber onto the sofa, throwing bloody organs everywhere. He coughs again, sicking a bit of acidy bile into his mouth, then he chokes it back down. The settee feels about two centimetres long. He tries to sit on it lengthways, then he tries to sit on it widthways. Balling himself up, for a second he thinks he’s getting comfy, when suddenly the skulls in the carpet let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream. No, pardon me, that’s actually just his phone going off in his trousers. Scared shitless, Bobby launches himself off the sofa, scrabbling with his trousers for about half a minute, then finally retrieving his mobile and answering it. ‘Hello?’ Bobby mumbles, trying to stop mind-power turning his phone into a six-foot anaconda. ‘Hello! Bobby! Good to speak to you – you’re not busy are you?’ the snake replies. It’s actually Bent Lewis,

phoning from his plush rosebush-smelling office in London, all squeaky and cheerful and you can tell by the tone of his voice he’s wearing a bright pink shirt. ‘No, er, don’t worry,’ Bobby speaks, feeling a bit confused and detached like he’s walked into somebody else’s dream. ‘Lovely,’ Lewis chirps. ‘You see, I was just ringing about those paintings you sent me recently … now, don’t get me wrong – they’re
interesting
but, I don’t know, it just seems you might’ve lost your touch somewhat. I mean, we all love looking at girls with their
legs open
, but where’s the soul? What’s happened to all the stories? You should be telling stories, Bobby, not all this wanking around, mate …’ Bobby nods along passively with Bent Lewis’s lah-dee-dah voice, then suddenly he starts feeling all sick again and he doesn’t want to listen and he slams the phone off the skully carpet. The skulls disappear for a second, then return again with new recruits. ‘Fuck off,’ he snaps at the empty room. He thinks Bent Lewis is just trying to get back at him, for not shagging him in the Colon. He stares utterly depressed at the upholstery and the furniture. Sniffing, Bobby the Artist shuffles again in his trainers. For some reason his feet feel far too big and uncomfy for his shoes. Getting jittery, he tries wiggling and wriggling his toes, slamming them up and down on the ground, cursing them, untying and retying the laces. No good, though. Wincing, Bobby gets up again to make himself a glass of water (a queer, desperate attempt to flush out all the toxins), but as he walks he feels his feet gradually turn to skeletons then all the bones crack and crumble to dust in his size 10 Trim-Trabbs. He screams the first letter of the alphabet, kicking off the nasty trainers, tears forming in the sides of his mouth. He shakes his feet frantically, then jabbers off to the bedroom to sink his head into a pillow. He drops himself flat onto the bronze bedcovers, but he’s far too wired and petrified to sleep. ‘You’re going insane,’ the left-hand compartment of his brain teases him. ‘You’re never coming out of this trip, unfortunately,’ the right-hand compartment goads, ‘if it
is
a trip, that is!’ Hiding in the bedroom, Bobby hears Georgie come in from work but he’s too frightened to talk to anyone human so he ignores her and pretends she doesn’t exist. Georgie sees the squashed Sarah Lee gateau on the living room floor, shouts ‘Hello’ to Bobby, but she doesn’t get any reply and she’s not sure whether to eat the cake or not. She knows Bobby’s home (his shoes are over there in the kitchen), and she wonders why he’s ignoring her. She feels like having a big cry on the sofa but she restrains herself, instead just sitting there in silence for a while in the grey miserable lounge. Back in the bedroom, all colourless and treacherous, Bobby the Artist watches with horror as coats hung on hooks begin to morph into bleeding animal carcasses, but before the visions get too intense his mind says
stop stop stop
and he slams on the brain-brakes and his heart starts panting, and the visions go away. It’s a constant struggle to keep his brain from taking the piss out of him. He’s not sure what’s happening to him. Bobby gets up to check if his pupils are dilated, but it seems someone’s replaced the mirror with a portrait of Dracula. Dracula screams, then leaps back onto the bed. Aaaargh! Bobby trembles on the stone mattress, papping himself, and yet there’s also a strange admiration for his brain conjuring up such horrific scenes. By heck, the power of the mind! But the more Bobby keeps telling himself it’s just mind over matter, the more the room keeps tormenting him. Stubs in the ashtray turn into filthy bugs and maggots. Every single object in the room seems sinister – even Georgie’s flowery knickers, and the picture of the two bunnies above the chest of drawers. Trembling, Bobby the Artist sinks his head back into the pillows. He tries to lie still for a bit – and for a few seconds it’s alright – until, all of a sudden, footsteps start approaching outside the bedroom door. The steps are quite heavy, like they’re carrying the weight of some sort of ogre or troll or the big brown mammoth thing out of
Labyrinth
. Bobby the Artist pulls the bronze covers up to his eyelids. The footsteps are getting closer and closer, and you can hear the beastie grunting as it approaches Bobby’s boudoir. It’s like there’s some bloodthirsty demon out there. Probably with awful decaying teeth to gnaw on him, and horns spurting out semen and AIDS-infected blood, and claws caked in poo to scrape into him, and horrid breath, and eyes seeping smelly pus, and a belly full of young artists. The bedroom door begins to open. Bobby yelps, scrabbling around on the mattress in total desperation, but it turns out the monster’s only Georgie, and she looks at him with diagonal eyebrows as he lies squealing on the bed. She wonders what his problem is. She asks him if he wants pasta sauce for tea. ‘Soz soz soz, I can’t talk to you,’ Bobby the Artist snaps, shuddering in his sweaty argyle gown. He knows in his head it’s rude to snap, but he’s feeling so twisted the last thing he’s capable of is a pleasant conversation with someone. He buries his head in the duvet again. Georgie’s face drops, then she turns and scuttles out of the bedroom, mortified. Bobby just stays quiet, glad to be alone again. He can’t speak at all. Fucking monsters. He has a little sigh to himself, hoping to God it’s all over. He tries to lie still for a bit – and for a few seconds it’s alright – until, all of a sudden, footsteps start approaching outside the bedroom door. The steps are quite heavy, like they’re carrying the weight of some sort of ogre or troll or the big brown mammoth thing out of
Labyrinth
. Bobby the Artist pulls the bronze covers up to his eyelids again. The footsteps are getting closer and closer, and you can hear the beastie grunting as it approaches Bobby’s bedroom. It’s like there’s some bloodthirsty demon out there. Probably with slimy green tentacles to strangle him, and snakes for hair spitting out venom and vomit, and eyes falling out on dangly stalks, and horrid BO, and tongue dripping smelly period blood, and a belly full of young artists. The tower block begins to shake. Bobby yelps, scrabbling around on the mattress in total desperation, but it turns out the monster’s only Alan Blunt the Cunt going down the corridor to work his shift at ICI. Alan’s been on the piss all afternoon, and he’d definitely own up to feeling a bit beastly this evening. He staggers insect-like round the block, losing his way, gurgling, trying to find the right stairs to ground floor. It’s funny how, after a crate of Newcastle Brown, you can forget the most basic, familiar things. He burps. Fifteen minutes later he’s out on windswept Cargo Fleet Lane, getting later and later, and he slumps over to Premier like wobbly raspberry jelly. It’s no fun driving the big tanker without a few nibbles or a copy of the
Sun
– he hopes there’s some really disgusting stories in there today. Stumbling out of the newsagent, Alan has a shifty glance at Keeley on Page 3 then ambles back towards Peach House and unlocks his battered Ford Escort. He calls his car Bryan. Bryan’s been really faithful to Alan Blunt over the years, despite grudgingly driving him places when he’s had too much to drink. Bryan often has flashbacks about all those scratches and dents in his bodywork, and his eyesight still hasn’t recovered from that time Alan smashed into the back of a Punto on Ormesby roundabout and Bryan’s headlight got caved in. But the two of them are like brothers, and on the odd occasion when Alan’s feeling particularly lonely he has been known to talk to Bryan on their trips out together. ‘Hello, Bryan,’ Alan slathers, splattering spit down his chin. He gets in the front seat, whacks the engine on, then sits for a bit while the car warms up, finally spinning it off the tarmac and onto busy Cargo Fleet. Alan’s a fairly competent driver even when he’s drunk – after all, driving the HGV as an occupation makes the Ford Escort seem really nifty; a bit like playing keepy-uppies with a ping-pong ball before moving on to a size 6 Mitre. But having said that, it’s been a while since Alan’s been this drunk for work and, as he hurtles unknowingly into the charging two-lane traffic of Longlands Road, Alan realises it’s going to be a bit of a mission getting to work this eve. And God knows what it’ll be like driving the container! Alan does an accidental wheel-spin coming onto the trunk road. He knows he’s far too mortalled to be transporting gas, but he knows how lonely it gets at home and he’d be lost without anything to do on the nights. Usually, when he’s been out on the lash, Alan just downs a couple ProPlus with a couple coffees and he’s sound, and he makes a mental note to visit the ICI canteen as soon as he gets to the plant. In any case, the job today is just taking the empty cab and chassis back to Hull to get reloaded and reserviced, so it’s not as if he’s driving with loads of dangerous chemicals on his back. Alan concedes, burping and spluttering, that he’ll be fine and dandy. Blinking heavily, Alan misses a few chances to join the roundabout at Grangetown, gazing lazily at the smoking towers and the kids playing football on the Wilf Mannion recky below. He wonders how Tiny Tina’s getting on this evening in her little gingham dress; he can’t wait to kidnap her. Perhaps she’d like to drive with him in the tankers. ‘Beep beep beep!’ the cars behind sing out, and Bryan shudders into life and jumps hastily into the revolving traffic on the roundabout. There’s a near-miss between Bryan and this yellow Seicento, then the two of them slip off down the A1085 into the metal-clunking, fire-spunking fortress called ICI. It’s a strange old place. The trees they put up to hide the cubey eyesores and big flare-stack stiffies have all withered to grey twiglets from the pollution. Ravens swoop overhead, ready to peck your eyes out. And all the men are fluorescent. Aah, it’s like a second home though. Foot jittering on the accelerator, Alan Blunt the Cunt pulls into the crowded car park, foaming slightly at the mouth. Still pissed up, Alan gets out of the Escort, forgets to lock up then remembers, then tries his best to stroll soberly into the building with the canteen in it. He wipes a bit of condensation off his thick brown gegs, slipping slightly on the lino and laughing. The room smells of polystyrene cups. Alan Blunt hobbles over to the counter, smiles a load of furry teeth at Gloria the ex-dinnerlady, then orders a strong coffee three sugars please. He tries not to keel over, keeping one hand on the tray rack. He considers scranning one of the sandwiches but he’s not sure his stomach could take it; even the sight of the swirling whirlpool coffee makes him gag slightly. He feels himself staring at Gloria all mole-eyed. Lifting the coffee up round the rim, he pours in the sugars, stir stir stir, pays Gloria, then staggers over to the empty school tables and sits down. The canteen has that cold morbid feel of a hospital waiting room, and he can see his breath. Banging his bum down on a foam seat, Alan feels his head bob in drunken knackeredness towards the table, absolutely fucked, then he takes a sip of coffee all hot and spicy into his belly. He looks at his watch, which says 5.11pm – only nineteen minutes until drive-time. He really cannot be bothered. He glances up at the few others in the canteen – there’s Henderson the lab technician going bald years before his time, there’s Miss Adams the Enron receptionist still wearing eighties power suits (today’s shade is violet), there’s Barnes the plastic analyser with the daft lopsided face after his stroke last summer, and there’s Alan Blunt the Cunt’s boss David H. Stephenson. ‘Are you alright there, Alan?’ Stephenson asks, unfortunately clocking him over the spinning cake machine. Alan looks up at him from his steamy coffee, or rather he looks a bit past him then a bit before him then Bang! right into Stephenson’s beady eyes. ‘Er, ey up,’ Alan mumbles, trying to act natural and all that. The paranoia of being caught pissed on the job just makes it worse though, makes Alan’s head clogged with lots of unnecessary thoughts and cover-ups, and he blows it completely by spurting out, ‘What’s your problem?’ Stephenson glares at him. He’s heard rumours of Alan getting pissed before work and heard the words ‘alcoholic’ and ‘nutcase’ batted about the plant before, and he can see Alan’s eyeballs wobbling all over the place and mouth all sloppy and slurring like he’s got a slippery haddock for a tongue, and breath worse than an old man’s undercrackers. ‘You’re not driving the tanker tonight, are you?’ Stephenson asks, with that harsh tone of a headteacher. David H. Stephenson is much higher up the ladder than Alan, co-ordinating the fleet of gas tankers on their various excursions up and down the country and abroad, and he has a habit of feeling incredibly superior to those underneath him, especially the no-hopers like Alan. Alan Blunt the Cunt swallows down more manky coffee, then squints his eyes and protests, ‘Aye, but there’s no gas on it tonight. Just the cab and that, mate. It’s, er, it’s alright mate.’ Stephenson rolls up his M&S sleeves, disgusted that anyone as trolleyed as Alan could even consider putting his life – and the lives of others, such as pregnant single mothers and children – at risk driving a fucking huge Leyland cab and chassis down public streets in that state. Stephenson has no points on his licence, and he passed his driving test years and years ago with only one minor. Flicking back his Brylcreemy barnet, Stephenson snarls at Alan, ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’ Alan shrugs, still trying to convince himself he’s alright but it’s hard work, and he repeats, ‘Naw naw, it’s only the … there’s no gas tonight. I’m not gonna blow anyone up …’ Stephenson snorts, disgusted. He screws his face up, as if he’s just seen a tramp shit on his freshly pruned, plumed garden. As if it makes any difference, Alan sits up a bit straighter and reels off in a drippy monotone, ‘It’s sound, mate. I know the roads like the, er, back of my hand. I could get to Hull with my fucking eyes shut. Not that I’m going to, like, but …’ Since beginning the tanker job five years back, the veins and wires in Alan’s brain have slowly formed a British road map but, even so, he’s still miles and miles over the drink-drive limit and the insanity limit. ‘You’re not going anywhere, sonny,’ Stephenson states, using that same tone of voice his two boys face when coming home late from badminton. ‘You’re a disgrace, Alan,’ he continues, ‘and don’t think I won’t bring this up with Roberts,’ (his boss) ‘or Charvelstone’ (his boss’s boss). Gurgling slightly, Alan coughs up a bit of waxy phlegm. In his spinning teacup head, Alan doesn’t really give a fuck what Stephenson says, but when David H. orders him to down the coffee and ‘get the hell off the premises’ he does feel a pang of stupidity and regret. ‘Well, should I come back tomorrow?’ Alan Blunt yells back at Stephenson as he plods back out of the canteen. ‘Don’t count on it,’ Stephenson spits, catching the eyes of his peers, feeling like God. Recently, at the annual chemicals conference in Coventry, he was proud to note his wife was the most beautiful of all the ICI wives. ‘I’ll speak to Roberts,’ Stephenson adds, as Alan disappears out the door, ‘and I’ll let you know. But don’t hold your breath.’ Sort of downcast, Alan Blunt the Cunt waddles back to his Ford Escort, pleased he parked Bryan out of sight of the cafeteria so shitty Stephenson can’t see him drive off. He jumps into the M-reg, then scuttles hastily out of the Ind. Est. After that coffee he feels a bit sick in the guts, but also a bit livelier and more perceptive on the roads, and he knows he could’ve driven the cab down to Hull no bother. Speeding down the trunk road, skidding whoosh whoosh over all the roundabouts, Alan figures Stephenson won’t say anything – he’s all mouth and no chinos, that sort of wanker. It’s not as if Alan was caught drinking behind the wheel; he was only caught drinking coffee in the canteen. Shock! Horror! Alan sighs. He gets back to Peach House and puts another brew on and sticks