CLUBS, A DUCK, TWO WHORES
AND SOME DRUGS
I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs, alcohol or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.
– Hunter S. Thompson
*
Eric had asked John to meet him at his club, Black’s. John had a great deal of trouble finding it, hidden away at the centre of the maze of Soho. He had even more trouble persuading the openly incredulous bouncers that he was actually supposed to be there. Black’s was a club of the very darkest night. Although it was not a nightclub as such. So black that it was off the radar of most of the party crowd.
The footballers and soap stars did not like its poshness, preferring places that were more classy*. Truly huge A-list celebrities eschewed it too. At least it was avoided by those global superstars who burned brightly in the oxygen of publicity. They found its strict privacy policy suffocating. It was the sort of place that River Phoenix wouldn’t have been caught dead in. It had its fair share of famous patrons but few of them ever appeared on the front pages of tabloids. And if they came here to party it was because they preferred to keep it that way. Black’s celebrities were known for their cerebrity.
_____________
* An oxymoron if ever there was one.
On any given evening it was a lot more tedious than the gullible readers for star stalking magazines would care to believe. And if ever they went there they would hate it. The dance floor was only open from Thursday to Saturday evenings but the well-stocked, oak-panelled library was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Black’s did have a first class cocktail bar and an excellent private restaurant that served the best confit of duck in the whole of London. Whatever that was.
Once John had negotiated the distrustful door staff things went more smoothly. Like those who had successfully convinced Saint Peter of their credentials, John found that on the inside, everyone was falling over themselves to help him. A liveried concierge, familiar with his kind, took this confused soul under his wing. Delicately interrogating John he ascertained who he was and what mistake had let him into Elysium. He informed John that Eric had been here earlier but had been called away. He guided John gently into the bar and entrusted him to higher powers.
The barman wore a different uniform. He was clearly in charge of the next cloud up. A plush, well-appointed cloud with thick black carpets and deep red décor. In contrast to the sparking lights of the bar with its smoked glass counter and mirrors, the rest of the room appeared very dark. There were lots of little lights cleverly hidden in the moulded fittings but the subtle light they seemed not to travel very far before being absorbed by the soft dark furnishings. The big dark suede sofas, gathered in four or five well spaced groups, looked too comfy to get up from. Although it must have been possible because currently they were all empty. There were about a dozen stools lined up along the bar; two were in use. Other than John and the barman (the concierge having evaporated) the only occupants of the bar were two young women. Two beautiful blonde angels, who were drinking cocktails at the far right end of the bar.
Out of instinct John headed to the furthest stool on the far left end of the bar. Nevertheless the woman facing his direction caught his eye and smiled. Her smile dazzled and discombobulated him. She leaned into her friend and whispered something. Now her friend also turned round and having to work a little harder also caught John’s eye and offered him an equally dazzling smile. John was still too disorientated to react so cast around for assistance. He found it in the form of the cocktail list. He studied it intently without taking in a single word.
“Good evening, sir. … Sir?”
John became aware that the barman was talking to him.
“Hello.”
“Your first time at Black’s?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“Not at all, but you do seem a bit confused by our drinks menu.”
“Yes, what would you recommend?”
“Will you be dining with us, sir?”
“Yes, does that matter?”
“The food at Black’s is very rich so you would be advised to start with a short, sharp astringent drink like a whiskey sour or our pomegranate margarita?”
“Erm,” John stalled as he hunted these on the menu.
“Or perhaps a simple gin and tonic?”
“No, a whiskey sour sounds great.” John had never had either of these but thought that a whiskey sour sounded safest.
The barman moved away and proceeded to make an elaborate fuss over the preparation of his drink. John remembered how to read and found his drink in the menu. Whiskey and lemon juice didn’t sound too bad. Though perhaps there were secret unmentioned ingredients because the barman was making a surprising amount of fuss. But maybe that was what made it cost fifteen pounds a glass.
John was ready with his wallet when his cloudy brown drink was placed in front of him.
“Don’t worry sir, it’s on Mr Hayle’s account.”
“Right, thank you.”
John’s first tentative sip was of a drink that didn’t really taste of whiskey or of lemon juice. In fact, it tasted fantastic and his second mouthful was more ambitious. He was fortunate to have swallowed it before he noticed that the two blondes had walked over to where he was sitting.
“Hello,” said the blonde on the left.
“Hh,” said John.
“Hello,” said the blonde on the right.
“Hh,” said John.
Jayne and Sam taken individually were far beyond any ordinary man’s hopes even to fantasise about. For it would be too unrealistic, too far removed from his experience for him to extrapolate into this stratospheric league. That they were enthusiastically introducing themselves to John, who until a few weeks ago had been an ordinary man, was not getting through to his higher brain at all. Some dusty circuits in a primal part of his brain, starved of sexual contact of any kind for the last six months, had blown. From the moment his cognitive functions had registered that they were talking to him, he’d become paralysed from the neck upwards.
Jayne was a natural blond, as she would gigglingly offer to prove to John any number of times more that night. Sam told him later that she had gone blonde for professional reasons but for other reasons connected with her profession she had no means of proving this. They were both much more intelligent than either men or women normally gave them credit for. Whether for this reason, or some other, they often found that men’s intelligence dropped considerably in their company.
“I’m Sam,” said Sam.
John managed to nod.
“I’m Jayne,” said Jayne.
John managed another nod.
“You’re that philosophy friend of Eric’s aren’t you?” continued Sam.
“He told us all about you,” finished Jayne.
“You know Eric?” The shock made him forget that he’d 85
forgotten how to speak.
“Oh yes! Of course,” said Sam and for some reason Jayne found this very amusing.
“We were just talking to him now. He was very insistent that we should meet you.” Now it was Sam’s turn to laugh. “He said he wouldn’t be gone long, why don’t you join us until then? We can introduce ourselves.”
“We don’t need Uncle Eric to look after us do we?” said Sam.
“Yes, good idea. I’m John, by the way.”
“Yes, we know.” They said it in unison and broke into simultaneous laughter.
•
It had started out as a good idea. The man was sure of that.
His flat was a mess and that was making him uneasy. He knew he was prone to getting confused especially once he was already confused. He knew his own mental state just as well as any of his many, many doctors. He disagreed that it was a medical condition. Tidying the flat would be a good way to clear his mind. And once his mind was clear, he would be able to think straight again. Simple really.
The trouble was that his flat, in reality no more than a bedsit, was as cluttered and confused as he was. And it wasn’t very easy to know where to begin. It had been getting harder the longer he left the problem. He’d wanted to be methodical. That was important, he’d learnt that from the doctors. But the lack of space made it difficult to keep things orderly and the problem fed on itself. An empty room is, to a first approximation, tidy. A nearly empty room isn’t that far off either, whichever way you arrange the few things it contains. But each new thing you add to a room adds exponentially to the ways they can be arranged. Collect any items over any length of time and you will have untidiness. And all the while the second law of thermodynamics is adding dust, decay and disorder to the pile. Housework is a never-ending war with entropy. And entropy will always win in the end.
Nature abhors the vacuuming.
The man did not even own a vacuum cleaner. But he intended to bring order to the chaos. He could see that his sanity partly depended upon it.
His flat was in even greater disarray than normal. The five broken televisions were lost under shifting strata of newspapers. The floors and all the other surfaces were carpeted in an autumn forest of free leaflets and flyers, collected on the man’s daily perambulations but mostly unread. From the waist upwards, his kitchenette was not too bad. The tiny dining table regularly got swept clear for the man to unfold his treasure maps. The cooker and kettle were accessible and the tiny amount of available work surface was too small to support major chaos. Sure, the sink was full of dirty crockery but it wasn’t overflowing and it wasn’t full of dirty dishwater. (The man had lost the plug for the sink ages ago.) His cupboards were a terrible mess but that was why cupboards had doors.
The kitchen floor on the other hand was not for the faint hearted or the barefooted. Toast, crushed up Crispies, teabags that had missed the bin and other interesting detritus all jostled together with a growing community of stains. The black and white floor tiles were occasionally visible but it was an even bet which was which.
We shall not speak of the bathroom.
The man did not consider himself an untidy or unhygienic person. But the medication made it hard for him to keep on top of things. It meant that he had lacked the energy. But he was getting better. Now, energy was pulsing through him; if anything he had too much of it. This made him a busy person. His time was limited and he had a lot of important things to do. Cleaning could normally wait. But he was starting to feel it get away from him. There were too many wonderful things happening all at once and he was starting to lose track. He was starting to lose focus. He needed to be organised, to stay on top of things. Coming back to this chaotic flat after each day’s amazing adventures, he was finding it difficult to get organised. How could he draw up his plans if he couldn’t find any paper? How could he write in his journal if he couldn’t find a working pen or an empty journal? How could he unfold the maps if there were no flat surfaces available?
He couldn’t, of course.
But neither could he carry all this around in his head. There was too much. It got jumbled. He fumbled and his head jangled. Before he made any more plans, he needed a plan about making plans.
And this was it. He had to admit that his flat was a tip. So he would have to tidy it. And this time he meant it. He had started several times earlier in the week but little problems always seemed to get in his way. The sink was full, so was the draining board, and all the crockery cupboards. There was no clear space on which to start re-stacking his newspapers. The bin was too full to be moved but there were no bin bags to transfer the rubbish to.
He had forgotten to get them again today and the shops would be shut by now but he wasn’t going to let that defeat him. His mission was too important to be foiled by petty problems. He would just have to set his newly tuned creativity to work.
* ¢
Absorbed into the soft clutches of the dark suede sofa, Sam and Jayne had John surrounded. He had floundered through the conversation for an awkward twenty minutes. He’d been letting Sam and Jayne quiz him on his life so far. And although he was passing the quiz, he was failing the conversation. They both seemed very interested in getting to know him but he had trouble making an interesting story out of his own history. There was little in his life so far that impressed him so he was having a hard time trying to sound impressive. Disconcertingly this wasn’t putting them off which in other circumstances could have boosted his ego but right now merely served to make him feel even more awkward. He knew nothing about either of them but he was too overwhelmed by their double-barrelled assault to attempt to turn the tables. Besides, he didn’t know which one he fancied more.
His whiskey sour was almost gone but it had yet to turn into Dutch courage. He had some catching up to do; Sam and Jayne were clearly not on their first cocktail. He necked the last mouthful. The empty glass provided an escape. He was attempting to stand up when Eric steamed into the room.
“Don’t get up. Ah, ladies, you’ve met Mr Smith, excellent. William, a bottle of champagne and four glasses if you please. The good stuff.” Eric threw himself and his briefcase on the sofa opposite. “So has he told you that I’m going to make him world famous or is he being his usual modest self?”
The champagne was bought and Jayne moved over to sit with Eric, draping herself comfortably across his long body. For the brief time it took them to finish the bottle, Eric held forth on the nature of celebrity and how John could provide an antidote, an interesting alternative. He also set out some of the things he would be doing to make this happen. This was the first John had heard of many of Eric’s plans, so he listened as enthralled as the girls. Apparently, tomorrow he was being interviewed on the Radio One drive-time show.
“I didn’t know that,” John said.
“Well, you do now. Come on keep up at the back. I can’t stop and explain everything to you. We’d be here all night.”
•
The man had been here all night. He wasn’t yet making progress. He had had some interruptions: a couple of crucial notes for his journal, a siren outside the window. He had thought he wanted music while he worked and had turned on the radio. It was still tuned to the news channel so he was going to switch it over but they had a very interesting programme about an East African micro-finance project and he sort of got swept up in it. When it ended half an hour later he remembered what he had been doing and tuned into some bland commercial station that would serve nothing but pabulum. Much better for working. But this was going to be a long job so he thought he should eat something first.
So that was that, whether he wanted to or not, he’d have to start with the sink.
* ¢
Back in Black’s, another liveried member of staff had shepherded them through to the restaurant. Passing through the over-brassed swing doors it was clear they were moving up to the next realm of heaven. Everything sparkled: the mirrors, the chandeliers, the glassware and the knives and the forks.
Several trolleys supporting silver domes. Even the cakes on the many-tiered cake-stand seemed to sparkle, glazed strawberries glistening like rubies.
“Sam Spade tells me you’re no longer a vegetarian, is that right?” Eric directed his question at John, who nodded a confused consent. “Good, in which case, young Mr Smith and I are having confit of duck, you ladies choose whatever you like. The sole and the hake are great. But perhaps you’ve had enough of wet fish?” Eric said, merrily jabbing a fork in Smith’s direction.
“A private detective?”
“Yes, I had you investigated. I want to know about all the skeletons in your closet. The more I build you up the more my competitors will want to tear you down and we’d like to stay a few steps ahead of the pursuing hounds.”
“Couldn’t you have just asked me?”
“I could do that, I suppose. If I wanted to be bored out of my fucking mind. And that’s not going to tell me what dirt other newspapers could dig up on you. They’ll be going through your bins and interviewing every girl or boy whose heart you’ve broken. If it’s out there someone will find it and I had rather that someone was me.”
“So you hired private detectives to investigate me?”
“Of course, you don’t think I could’ve trusted this to any of my journalists do you?”
“And so what have your detectives found?” asked John, slightly angry but confident that ultimately he had nothing to worry about.
“We’ve got a big, big problem. They haven’t found anything. You don’t appear to have done anything wrong or interesting your entire life.” Eric pulled a red folder from his briefcase and held up a flimsy report just a few pages long. “If we’re not careful, I am going to have to start making things up.”
John looked terrified.
“I’m joking, I’m joking. But perhaps you can help me check to see if they are doing a good job. Eric turned with relish to the executive summary. For the second time that night, John had to suffer through a catalogue of his under-achievements.
~
If good foie gras depends upon on an unavoidable amount of cruelty to geese, the secret of duck confit is killing them with kindness. Not for nothing is the best restaurant in the world called the Fat Duck. The fatter the duck, the better the confit. And whereas the geese must be force fed to selectively screw with their livers, for a good duck confit one needs a happy, well rounded duck. A duck that leads a full but not that active life, fed all that his heart desires (and yes it is ideally a he-duck because drakes taste better)
But if it is the happiest ducks that are destined for the highest tables, it is not a long life that they lead. For these ducks are rarely out of adolescence before their time must come. Mercifully, it is a swift death. Stress hormones break down the fat so the ducks are killed with the minimal of shock or warning. Chopping their heads off after a hearty meal usually works here. Life as he knew it is no more for the duck but his lifeless body will hang around for a little while longer before his true purpose is fulfilled. The fat, lifeless bodies are hung up to let the blood drain out. No sooner than two weeks but no later than a month and a half he can be confited. The need to be kind has now passed but no less care must be taken if one is aiming for the best.
The legs and thighs are jointed from the body and seasoned with sea salt and black pepper. A large number of garlic cloves and some thyme and bay leaves are placed on top of the duck legs and the whole thing refrigerated for half a day or so. Then the legs are removed and placed in a heavy covered pot with a further amount of fat taken from the carcass. These are then braised in a low temperature oven for up to eight hours. This preserves the legs in a milky bath of their own fat and they can now be kept refrigerated for several months. Eventually the duck will have his day. And upon that day, he shall be taken from the fridge, roasted until crispy and deep, deep brown and usually served with a selection of vegetables roasted in his bounteous fat. And he will, if treated to a happy life and a dignified death, taste absolutely delicious.
* ¢
By the time the food arrived, Eric had got bored of teasing John and had started regaling the girls without outlandish tales of the many celebrities he had met and disliked. It seemed to be most of them but his greatest hatred seemed to be preserved for Hugh Hefner, the Queen and the Pope. Though the latter two were conceded, at least, to have some good taste.
“The problem with Hugh Hefner is that he has absolutely no soul and minimal charisma. He wouldn’t know kitsch from cubism. He’s okay with curves but he can’t cope with crinkles. He airbrushes all the character out of his starlets. He wants to hide us from life’s ugliness – perhaps it’s because he looks like a failed experiment to cross a coconut with a pumpkin?”
Sam and Jayne were clearly enthralled. John, relieved to be out of the spotlight, started to relax. He’d even managed to chip in with an occasional joke. To John’s surprise Eric had laughed and so had the girls. Maybe he was still in with a chance. He still couldn’t decide which girl he liked more. Though his choices could be dwindling. Jayne barely noticed he was there and Sam just seemed slightly uneasy.
•
Decisions, decisions, decisions.
The man had decided to start with the newspapers and pamphlets and he knew that it wasn’t going to be a straightforward task so, very wisely, he had broken it down into stages. First he would sift all the paper into piles, then he would sift the piles into smaller piles and from those he could start to get things organised, sorting by their important properties like resonance and portent. The first order of business was to have three piles, newspapers, magazines and pamphlets. The pamphlets pile could also include leaflets and flyers. (This wasn’t ideal but he could deal with that later.) First, he needed some space for the piles. The drifts of paper were not so built up beneath the window. The man would often stand there to look out at the world. He would start his sweep from here. He scooped up a clutch of clutter with both his arms and carried it carefully to the bed.
He managed to move a couple of armfuls and now almost had clear spot by the window to start from. As he went he couldn’t help reading the topmost sheets. This one announced a meditation class at his local community college, he remembered picking it up; he was going to go. How strange that he had forgotten all about it. This was important. It had better not get lost again in the big sweep. Maybe he needed another pile just for the really important things? It would save time in the long run. He let the other papers drop to the bed and looked around for another spot to clear.
* ¢
When the main courses had been cleared, Eric ordered champagne and coffees all round. A few minutes before, a valet had come and whispered something in his ear and now he pushed back from the table and stood up.
Eric gestured to you John. “You, come with me. Ladies, I am not much of a sweet person but perhaps you can find us a few nice things to share? We’ll be right back.”
John followed Eric out of the dining room. They went back down the magnificent balustraded staircase and across the black marble hallway, into a thickly carpeted corridor leading to the rear of the building. They came to some heavy wooden doors with a plaque that proclaimed ‘Private Dining’. They entered a room that was more muted than the main restaurant. Dark oil paintings hung on the walls and a large mahogany table with twelve matching chairs dominated the room. Seated in one of them had been a tall, dark-complexioned man, who now unfolded himself to make their acquaintance.
“Mr Smith, allow me to introduce Mr White, my pharmacist.”
John took the proffered hand. Mr White looked Russian, but was in fact seven-eighths Inuit. John assumed that Mr White was not his real name but it was a fairly accurate translation of his Eskimo name. Disconcertingly he had a strong Welsh accent.
“All right there, Mr Smith. Eric here tells me you’re planning on having yourself a wild night, are you?”
“Yes” John replied for the lack of anything better to say.
“So what do you need?”
John stalled, not wanting to reveal his pitiful ignorance of all things illegal, “I’m not really sure,” he offered weakly.
Eager to collect his own order Eric rescued him. “I’d say he needs Mister White’s All-Night Bag of Shite, wouldn’t you, Arlvik?”
“Right you are, Mister H, though I prefer to refer to it as Mister White’s Original Miscellany.” Arlvik started to bring all sorts of bags, packets and bundles out of his many pockets and dropped them on the mahogany table. From deep in one of his inside pockets he got another slightly bigger packet and slid it across to Eric. “And while I’m about it, there’s yours Eric.”
Eric wasted no time in tearing open the packet, which seemed from where John was standing to contain half a dozen smaller plastic pockets of white powder. Eric stuffed all but one of these into his jacket. He tipped the contents of the final one onto the smooth French polished surface of the table and began making geometrical patterns in the dust. This unnerved Mr White slightly and he went over to bolt the door.
“So where were we?” he said coming back to the table. “You will need a lot of that, obviously,” nodding at Eric and passing John two bags of white powder. John guessed these were cocaine.
“Some of these.” Lots of little white pills that reminded John of his ex-girlfriend’s pointless homoeopathic chalk tablets. He imagined that these would be marginally more effective.
“Although these have more of a kick” A slightly smaller bag of green ones.
“And these,” (pink ones), “are more mellow, you know?”
“Yeah” John lied, hoping to sound knowledgeable.
“Be fucking careful with this,” (some dirty brown powder), “It is stronger than you’ll be used to.” John did not contest this.
Next Arlvik handed him a bit of paper folded into a small rectangular parcel. “This will help you out if your horse gets sick, if you know what I mean.” John did not know what this meant. But coming from a drug dealing Welsh Inuit, he doubted very much that it was the number of a good veterinarian.
Finally, Arlvik placed two other small plastic bags on the table, one with a colourful selection of pills and capsules in it, the other with a few more little white parcels. “Then these are your medicine cabinets, Traditional and Western.” He gestured first at the white parcels. “A range of Mother Nature’s finest psychedelics. They are all labelled and they are all divine. So enjoy the ride.” He handed the bag to John with some ceremony. John tried to look suitably cosmic. “And if you crash we’ve got western medicine to pick you back up. Vallies, Viagra, Codeine and a few jellies.”
“Thanks,” John took the pills and added them to his pile.
“And I nearly forgot, some of this.” He reached into yet another pocket and handed John a small sack of dusty green buds. The first thing he had been able to positively identify since arriving.
“Did you need anything else?”
John could quite honestly say that the large collection of plastic bags now resting in his jacket pocket was more than sufficient. A lot more than sufficient. He very much doubted he would take any of it but not wanting to hurt the drug dealer’s feelings, he merely smiled and nodded.
He had tried weed a few times at college and fallen quite peacefully asleep. But woke up deciding that on the whole he preferred alcohol. Of the others, he had only ever taken cocaine. Even that had been only once, at a house party, where he had done it to attempt to impress the bright and perky Australian girl who had offered it to him. And while he had enjoyed the sensation, it didn’t have his intended effect. The girl had become even more bright and perky and very quickly wandered off to find other people to talk at.
Eric had not been idle. He had shepherded his white cloud into an intricate geometric pattern that looked like this:
(but in white on mahogany).
Eric stared at it for some time as if mesmerised. Then he reached into his pocket and retrieved what looked like a small silver candelabra. Just right for two of those birthday cake candles. It must have been hollow because having put the two prongs to his nose; Eric was able to rapidly hoover up most of his construction. He had good lungs and very clear nasal passages.
When he straightened up just two lines of the figure remained.
“They say I should not keep punishing my nose like this but I figure on getting at least another 10 or 20 years out of it yet.”
He moved away from what remained, offering it to the two of them. Fortunately for John, Mr White stepped forward. He took a miniature single candlestick holder out of his own pocket. In one smooth practised movement, he bent down, brought it up to his nose and, blocking his other nostril with the same hand, he guided the little silver tube along the left hand line. When it had gone, he straightened up and passed the metal tube to John and once again John found that he was taking drugs purely in order to look cool in front of other people. Peer pressure doesn’t stay in the playground.
With one hand John brought the tube to his nose. He tried to imitate the others but this was a little more difficult than the experts made it seem. Seating himself in the nearest chair and using both hands, John managed to seal one nostril while sniffing through the other. It took him only a couple of attempts to clear the table. There was a tingle in the back of his throat but it wasn’t all together unpleasant. He handed back Mr White’s candlestick holder and tried to compose himself into a cool posture. He just about had it settled when he blew everything by sneezing violently.
Eric snorted at John’s poor snorting.
Mr White was more diplomatic. “When you need any more just give me a call.” The Inuit handed him a business card. At first it looked blank but as he took it, he felt raised lettering on the front. Holding it up to the light he saw that there were words embossed in white ink on the card.
“Very cool,” John had to admit.
“Hey man, I’m an Inuit, we know all about cool.” This was clearly a favourite line of John’s new friend and despite himself, he found he was laughing quite hard at the cheesy joke.
•
By the third or fourth sub-clearing and on about his thirteenth fish the m