The Patrick Melrose Novels (27 page)

Honest John: ‘I don't think he's going to survive this one, to be honest.'

Indignant Eric (shaking his head incredulously): ‘What amazes me is that people think they can come along and, eh, casually, eh, bury people alive.'

Mrs Chronos (carrying a huge hourglass, and wearing a tattered old ball gown): ‘Well, I must say, it's nice to be wanted! Not a single part since the fourth act of
The Winter's Tale
' (warmly). ‘A play by Bill Shakespeare, of course – a lovely man, by the way, and a close personal friend. As the centuries slipped past I thought, “That's right, just ignore me, I know when I'm not wanted.”' (Folds her arms and nods.) ‘People think of me as a character actor, but if there's one thing I can't stand, it's being typecast. Anyway,' (little sigh) ‘I suppose it's time to say my lines.' (Pulling a face.) ‘Frankly, I find them a little bit old fashioned. People don't seem to appreciate that I'm a modern girl.' (Coy laugh.) ‘I just want to say one more thing,' (serious now) ‘and that's a big “thank you” to all my fans. You kept me going during the lonely years. Thank you for the sonnets, and the letters and the conversations, they mean a lot, they really do. Think of me sometimes, darlings, when your gums go black, and you can't remember someone's name.' (Blows kisses to the audience. Then composes herself, smoothes the folds of her dress, and walks front stage.)

‘Since his death cannot be mended,

All our revels now are ended.

Think not harshly of our play

But come again another day.'

Attila the Hun (punches the lid off his coffin, making a sound of growling, snarling, hissing fury, like a leopard being baited through the bars of a cage): ‘Raaaarrrrrghh!'

Patrick shot bolt upright and banged his head on the leg of the chair. ‘Shit, wank, fuck, blast,' he said in his own voice at last.

 

8

PATRICK LAY ON THE
bed like a dead thing. He had parted the curtains for a moment and seen the sun rising over the East River, and it had filled him with loathing and self-reproach.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. That was another first sentence.

Other people's words drifted through his mind. Tumble-weed riding through a desert. Had he already thought that? Had he already said it? He felt bloated and empty at the same time.

Traces of the night's possession surfaced now and again in the slowly simmering scum of his thoughts, and the experience of being so thoroughly and often displaced left him bruised and lonely. Besides, he had almost killed himself.

‘Let's not go over that again,' he murmured, like a beleaguered lover who is never allowed to forget an indiscretion.

He winced as he stretched out his aching and sticky arm to check the time on the bedside clock. Five forty-five. He could order a selection of cold meats or a plate of smoked salmon straight away, but it would be another three-quarters of an hour before he could organize that brief moment of affirmation when a trolley rattling with wholesome breakfast food was wheeled into the room.

Then the fruit juice would sweat and separate under its cardboard cap; the bacon and egg, too intimidatingly carnal after all, would grow cold and begin to smell, and the single rose, in its narrow glass vase, would drop a petal on the white tablecloth, while he gulped down some sugary tea and continued to ingest the ethereal food of his syringe.

After a sleepless night, he always spent the hours from five thirty to eight cowering from the gathering roar of life. In London, when the pasty light of dawn had stained the ceiling above the curtain pole, he would listen with vampirish panic to the squealing and rumbling of distant juggernauts, and then to the nearby whining of a milkcart, and eventually to the slamming doors of cars bearing children to school, or real men to work in factories and banks.

It was nearly eleven o'clock in England. He could kill the time until breakfast with a few telephone calls. He would ring Johnny Hall, who was bound to sympathize with his state of mind.

But first he had to have a little fix to keep him going. Just as he could only contemplate giving up heroin when he had already taken some, so he could only recover from the ravages of cocaine by taking more.

After a fix of a moderation that impressed him almost as much as it bored him, Patrick propped up some pillows and installed himself comfortably beside the phone.

‘Johnny?'

‘Yup.' There was a strained whisper at the other end of the line.

‘It's Patrick.'

‘What time is it?'

‘Eleven.'

‘I've only had three hours' sleep in that case.'

‘Do you want me to ring back?'

‘No, the damage is already done. How are you?'

‘Oh, fine. I've had a rather heavy night.'

‘Nearly dying, et cetera?' gasped Johnny.

‘Yup.'

‘Me too. I've been shooting some really disreputable speed, made by a failed chemistry graduate with a shaking hand and a bottle of hydrochloric acid. It's the kind that smells of burnt test tubes when you push the plunger down, and then makes you sneeze compulsively, sending your heart into wild arrhythmic flurries reminiscent of the worst passages of Pound's
Cantos.
'

‘As long as your Chinese is good you should be all right.'

‘I haven't got any.'

‘I have. It's medicine, man, medicine.'

‘I'm coming over.'

‘To New York?'

‘New York! I thought the hesitating, whispering quality of your speech was a combination of my auditory hallucinations and your notorious indolence. It's very disappointing to learn that it has a
real
cause. Why are you there?'

‘My father died over here, so I've come to collect his remains.'

‘Congratulations. You've achieved half-orphan status. Are they refusing to part with his body? Are they making you put an equal weight of gold in the opposite scales to secure the precious cargo?'

‘They haven't billed me for it yet, but if there's even a hint of exaggeration, I'll just leave the rotten thing behind.'

‘Good thinking. Are you at all upset?'

‘I feel rather haunted.'

‘Yes. I remember finding that the ground beneath my feet seemed, if possible, more unreliable than usual, and that my desire to die was, if possible, even greater than before.'

‘Yes, there's a lot of that. Plus quite a bad pain in my liver, as if a gravedigger had pushed a shovel under my ribs and stepped on it rather hard.'

‘That's what your liver's for, didn't you know?'

‘How can you ask that?'

‘It's true. Forgive me. So when are we two Olympians going to meet?'

‘Well, I should be back tomorrow evening. Could you get some gear, and then I'll come straight round to you from the airport, without having to see the appalling Brian.'

‘Of course. Talking of appalling people, I wound up in the flat of some truly idiotic Italians the other night, but they did have some pink crystal coke which made a sound like a glockenspiel when it dropped into the spoon. Anyhow, I stole the whole lot and locked myself in the bathroom. As you know it takes a lot to ruffle the moronic tranquillity of those doe-eyed Italian dope fiends, but they seemed really pissed off, banging on the door and shouting, “Come out of there, you fucking man, or I kill you. Alessandro, make him come out!”'

‘God, how hilarious.'

‘Sadly, I think we've said “Ciao” for the last time, or I'd get you some. It was really the stuff to take before pushing the flaming longship into the grey waters for the last time.'

‘You're making me envious.'

‘Well, maybe we'll finally kill ourselves tomorrow night.'

‘Definitely. Make sure you get a lot.'

‘Yup.'

‘OK, I'll see you tomorrow evening.'

‘Goodbye.'

‘Bye now.'

Patrick hung up the phone with a faint smile on his lips. It always cheered one up talking to Johnny. He immediately dialled a new set of numbers and settled back on the pillows.

‘Hello?'

‘Kay?'

‘Baby! How are you? Hang on, I'll just turn down the music.'

The sound of an exasperated solitary cello grew suddenly muted, and Kay returned to the phone. ‘So how are you?' she asked again.

‘I haven't managed to get very much sleep.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘Neither am I, I've had about four grams of coke.'

‘Oh, God, that's awful. You haven't been taking heroin as well, have you?'

‘No, no, no. I've given that up. Just a few tranquillizers.'

‘Well, that's something, but why the coke? Think of your poor nose. You can't let it just drop off.'

‘My nose is going to be fine. I just felt so depressed.'

‘Poor baby, I'm sure you did. Your father dying is the worst thing that could have happened to you. You never got a chance to work things out.'

‘We never would have.'

‘That's what all sons feel.'

‘Mmm…'

‘I don't like to think of you there alone. Are you seeing anybody nice today, or just morticians?'

‘Are you implying that morticians can't be nice?' asked Patrick lugubriously.

‘Lord, no, I think they do a wonderful job.'

‘I don't really know. I have to collect the ashes, otherwise I'm as free as the wind. I wish you were here.'

‘So do I, but I'll, see you tomorrow, won't I?'

‘Absolutely. I'll come round straight from the airport.' Patrick lit a cigarette. ‘I've been thinking all night,' he continued rapidly, ‘– if you can call that thinking – about whether ideas come from the continual need to talk, relieved occasionally by the paralysing presence of other people, or if we simply realize in speech what we've already thought.' He hoped this was the kind of question that would distract Kay from the exact details of his return.

‘That shouldn't have kept you up,' she laughed. ‘I'll tell you the answer tomorrow night. What time do you get in?'

‘Around ten,' said Patrick, adding a few hours to the arrival time.

‘So I'll see you about eleven?'

‘Perfect.'

‘Bye, baby. Lots of love.'

‘You too. Bye now.'

Patrick put down the phone and made himself another little fix of coke to keep him going. The last fix was still too recent and he had to lie on the bed for a while, sweating, before he could make the next call.

‘Hello? Debbie?'

‘Darling. I didn't dare call you in case you were asleep.'

‘That hasn't been my problem.'

‘Well, I'm sorry, I didn't know that.'

‘I'm not accusing you of anything. There's no need to be so defensive.'

‘I'm not being defensive,' laughed Debbie. ‘I was just worried about you. This is ridiculous. I only meant that I've been worried all night about how you were.'

‘Ridiculous, I suppose.'

‘Oh, please don't let's argue. I wasn't saying
you
were ridiculous. I meant that arguing is ridiculous.'

‘Well, I was arguing, and if arguing is ridiculous then I was being ridiculous. My case rests.'

‘What case? You always think I'm attacking you. We're not in a courtroom. I'm not your opponent or your enemy.'

Silence. Patrick's head pounded from the effort of not contradicting her. ‘So what did you do last night?' he asked at last.

‘Well, I was trying to get hold of you for a long time, and then I went to Gregory and Rebecca's dinner thing.'

‘Suffering takes place while somebody else is eating. Who said that?'

‘It could have been almost anyone,' laughed Debbie.

‘It just popped into my mind.'

‘Mm. You should try editing some of the things that just pop into your mind.'

‘Well, never mind last night, what are you doing tomorrow night?'

‘We've been asked to China's thing, but I don't suppose you want to eat and suffer at the same time.' Debbie laughed at her own joke, as was her habit, while Patrick pursued his ruthless policy of never laughing at anything she said, without feeling on this occasion the least trace of meanness.

‘What a brilliant remark,' he said drily. ‘I won't come along, but nothing could persuade me to stop you from going.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, I'll cancel.'

‘It sounds as if I had better not stop being ridiculous, or you won't recognize me. I was going to come and see you straight from the airport, but I'll come when you get back from China's. At twelve or one.'

‘Well, OK, but I'll cancel if you like.'

‘No, no, I wouldn't dream of it.'

‘I'd better not go or you'll just use it against me later.'

‘We're not in a courtroom. I'm not your opponent or your enemy,' Patrick echoed mockingly.

Silence. Debbie waited until she could make a fresh start, trying to ignore Patrick's impossibly contradictory demands.

‘Are you in the Pierre?' she asked brightly.

‘If you don't know what hotel I'm in, how could you have rung me?'

‘I guessed you were in the Pierre, but I couldn't be sure since you didn't see fit to tell me,' sighed Debbie. ‘Is the room lovely?'

‘I think you would like it. There are lots of sachets in the bathroom and a phone next to the loo, so you needn't miss any important calls – an invitation to dinner at China's, for instance.'

‘Why are you being so horrid?'

‘Am I?'

‘I'm going to cancel tomorrow.'

‘No, no,
please
don't. It was only a joke. I feel rather mad at the moment.'

‘You always feel rather mad,' laughed Debbie.

‘Well, my father happens to have died, which makes me feel especially mad.'