Waving Not Drowning VII: A New Dawn

The psychiatrist’s ears are pointy like a red squirrel. Now and then his nose twitches from side to side like he’s sniffing for nuts.
‘You must excuse me,’ I say, ‘I haven’t slept well,’ I screw up my face.
How many hours until drink time?
‘We’re not making much progress,’ he says tapping the corner of his desk with a Bic.
Drink drink drink drink.
‘Maybe if we start from the beginning, talk me through slowly, really try and remember the details.’
I’m not stupid and am pretty sure most of the stuff I’ve been up to is illegal. Besides my brain is diseased; there’s all sorts of dirt, old bones and medieval madness in that river and half of it has been sucked up by my hair follicles and is swimming around inside.
‘I remember going to a party,’ I say.
‘Good that’s a start. You also mentioned something about a rifle?’
‘I said that? God I am talking nonsense, sorry.’
‘I can’t release you until it’s clear that you’re not going to harm yourself.’
Doctor Squirrel is all that separates me from a drink. I need to be more creative.
‘My boyfriend… he stood me up…’ I say with as much sincerity as I can muster.
I grab at the sleeve of my hospital gown and dab at my dry eyes.
‘Was that why you jumped?’ Doctor Squirrel asks.
His Bic is hovering over the white sheet of paper ready to write.
Patient suffering from chronic lovesickness, has a history of alcohol abuse and fantasises about violence and guns.
Sadly it’s not far from the truth.
‘I was in love with him you see, and then he chucked me at the party and so… well I just felt so lonely and sorry for myself...’
Doctor Squirrel writes it all down.
I don’t tell him about the kiss. Or balancing on the bridge, the sun coming up behind the outline of Battersea Power Station. I don’t tell him that I felt more alive than I’d ever felt before.
Holding hands with Stephen.
Holding hands until we went under and I couldn’t hold on anymore, the dark, wet cold swallowing us whole.

* * * * * * * *

It’s almost impossible to smell frothed milk with a hangover and not be sick. It comes straight out of cows’ breasts and we drink it, full of flies, muck and all. I tried to focus on the lovely fresh water gushing from the tap as Frankie washed up some plates.
‘One extra wet latte,’ I said setting the cardboard cup down.
I stared into the face of Droopy Shoulders who looked at me like I’d just served him a dog turd on a tray.
‘I ordered an extra cold frappucino with ice and a cinnamon shot,’ he said, his top lip quivering.
My head was killing me and I wanted nothing more but to crawl into bed.
‘Sorry Sir, I thought you said latte. I won’t be a second,’ I said.
Look at me like that one more time and I will shoot you buster.
‘Well get a move on, some of us have important jobs to do,’ Droopy announced.
Frankie looked at me with a worried expression.
‘Sir, I’d be happy if you refrained from making sweeping judgements. My job is just as important as yours.’
Frankie wiped her hands with a towel and crouched under the counter.
‘Yeah of course your job is important. You work in a bloody coffee shop and you can’t even get that right! Do you want me to speak more slowly?’
Before I could stop myself, the thing, the force whatever it was that had taken over my barista soul picked up the cup and threw the contents over his shirt.
The Boss nova music seemed to stop momentarily, steam rose from Droopy’s shirt, then his eyebrows jumped up to meet his hairline and his mouth opened into an enormous Ohhhh like he was about to launch into Nessun Dorma. Except he didn’t.
‘How dare you!’ he shouted.
Frankie had run out from behind the counter and was frantically dabbing Droopy down with some serviettes.
‘You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you,’ I said before I could stop myself.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Droppy snarled trying to swat Frankie away.
His face was all sweaty and the top part of his chest was turning pink.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he continued, ‘This won’t be the end Miss,’ he leant in and looked at my name badge, ‘Jess Barista or whatever your sodding name is.’
He then gave Frankie a small push and turned on his heel and left.
‘You’re going to get in big trouble,’ Frankie said shaking her head.
‘He was a pain in the arse,’ I said rubbing my temples, ‘Who does he think he is? We’re not cretins just because we work in a coffee shop.’
I felt uplifted and quite tempted to repeat the episode. Fortunately the café was relatively empty except for one woman sitting in the corner who was excitedly whispering into her mobile.
‘You should go home,’ Frankie suggested.
‘I’m fine. Bit hungover that’s all,’ I said.
‘But you’re not allowed to drink anymore,’ Frankie said.
‘Well you’re not going to tell anyone are you?’
I smiled. In my mind I looked calm and collected but I probably looked every bit like Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.
Frankie muttered something under her breath but it was in Polish and I couldn’t understand.
‘I might just go out the back for a bit seeing as it’s not that busy,’ I said.
‘I’ll ring Angela, she can cover, go home, ‘ she said ‘Hopefully we never see that man again.’
She started cleaning up the pool of coffee which had collected on the floor.

I sat down on the plastic crate. What was happening? I was up and down like a jack in the box. One minute I was shooting teens, the next throwing hot latte into a
businessman’s face. And what if the kids had gone to the police whilst I’d been at work? I’d get home and the cops would be swarming all over the place. But then again they’d been burning fish and doing all sorts, probably had criminal records, the last thing they needed was more attention. And besides they hadn’t seen me with my rifle, they didn’t know it’d been me taking pot shots at them like a demented Lee Harvey Oswald. I needed to get back as quickly as possible and get rid of the evidence. Take the rifle and fling it somewhere where no one would find it. Like the Grand Union Canal. I shoved my badge and shirt into a plastic carrier bag, waved goodbye to Frankie (poor girl, the café was filling up again) and then walked out.
My plan was to get rid of the rifle and then get pissed.

The neighbourhood was pretty much deserted when I got back. The old blind man from downstairs was muttering to himself as he walked past clutching his Daily Mirror. I wasted no time in retrieving the rifle from the back of the sofa, putting it in its box and then grabbed a big blanket out of the cupboard and wrapped everything up in it. I’d like to say that I was regretting my terrible behaviour at Café Jingo and was feeling guilty about Nice Eyes and Grey but all I could think about was the first glass of wine and whether I wanted red, white or rose since it was such a nice day and the sun was out.

Once I got to the one bit of the canal that I never usually visited because it was populated by looneys and criminals, I crouched down and dropped the rifle into the water, still wrapped up in the blanket. It sank much more quickly than I’d imagined, the blanket had been unnecessary as the box was heavy enough. I watched as a few big bubbles rose up to the surface then a myriad of miniature ones. It was quite hypnotic and a shame I hadn’t brought some booze with me. It felt like a significant moment out of a film and I couldn’t help wonder what was going to happen to my character next. It was time for a streetwise yet sweet guy to walk up and pull me out of this mess, get me back on the straight and narrow. Instead a bloated, furry object floated past, a dead cat possibly dead for months.
It’s a cliché but life is never like the movies.

The Royal Oak is like The Station pub but in reverse. Nobody who frequents it works in the media or wears black-rimmed glasses. Nobody knows what the latest play is or has heard of Shoreditch. This is a daytime drinker’s oasis. Somewhere where you can truly blend into the background. No one tries to get eye contact, it’s purely a heads down and get on with it affair. It isn’t an escape, there’s no pretence at social drinking. The wine is cheap and it comes with a bottle with a screw top. The wallpaper is so old it is almost in fashion again. I found a seat next to the door (I’m only staying for one after all) and ordered myself a nice glass of rose, then the landlord told me that there was a special offer on and I could have a whole bottle for the price of one and a half glasses. It was drinkable enough. But my tummy was rebelling because I hadn’t had any lunch and it was only two in the afternoon so I ordered a big packet of roasted peanuts.

I don’t mind drinking on my own, in fact I prefer it. I don’t feel any of the social embarrassment that other women say they feel. I rarely get male attention (the night before had been an exception- it was the smell of crime that reeled that fish in). I don’t get eye contact with anyone if I can help it. The more I drink, the more I talk to myself and I find that generally puts people off. And taking a brief look around this pub, I could tell that I didn’t have many potential suitors. One large round man was sitting with his back to me; his bald head revealed three thick rolls of fat, as thick as pork sausages. If you pulled the bottom roll up far enough you could potentially lift it over the back of his head and cover the tops of his eyebrows. I would perhaps attempt this later if the man was drunk enough. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to because every time his glass of beer was empty he simply nodded and the landlord filled it up again.

Another man sat in the corner, his eyes all rheumy and distant, he pretended to read the paper as he drank. The landlord hadn’t noticed that he had a small flask of something squirreled under the table that he tipped into his shot glass now and then. It was probably even cheaper than the booze they were selling here. The jukebox played 10CC or at least I thought it was 10CC, it was a song I remembered listening to whilst getting ready for school in the morning. My Mum trying to drag a comb through my rebellious rope like hair, then handing me my Snoopy lunch box which was packed with mashed up tomato and Marmite sandwiches. As I sipped my wine I felt myself sink. I realised that I needed another intervention.

An intervention is when a bunch of people, last time it’d had been my Mum, Dad and Ruth gather together and emotionally blackmail you until you agree that a) you have a problem and b) you need to do something about it. My intervention happened soon after the falling asleep in the bath incident, when I came out of hospital. I’d been rinsing the taps on the cappuccino frother at Cafe Jingo and looked up to see my Mum, Dad and Ruth standing in front of the counter. The music had been turned down and Frankie had temporarily shut the door so no more customers could come in. There was no escape.
‘Jess, we’re here to help you. You need to leave with us now. We’re taking you to a clinic. Somewhere where you can be around people that care about you, people that know how to take care of you,’ Mum said.

She’d sounded like some kind of brainwashed cult member and there was this strange hippie type woman standing next to her who just smiled like she’d had a lobotomy.
I’d tried to resist at first. I’d run out the back of Café Jingo and tried to climb into one of the skips to hide from them, the main thing I couldn’t bear was the thought of no more wine but it was also obvious they were over reacting. The bath had been a one-off; didn’t everyone wake up in strange places and not remember anything from the night before? After helping me out of the skip, Mum, Dad, Ruth and the weird woman drove me all the way to the countryside. Nobody talked in the car. We just listened to Dad’s Paco de Lucia tape which went round and round and made me desperate to drink again. Even petrol straight from the petrol tank. Then we’d pulled up outside a depressing bungalow type of place. ‘Shady Sands’ the sign said but there was no shade, no sand, just concrete, a manicured lawn and a timetable of embroidery, potato printing and therapy. God knows how much it cost my poor parents. It was the worst. There was no one to talk to who didn’t speak in some sort of strange gobbeldy gook self-help speak. All of them seemed to have proper lives waiting for them when they got out (there were no chief baristas put it that way). In the end I pretended that I was better just so I could leave. I managed to keep this act up for two years; perhaps it would have been longer if it hadn’t been for them, the kids.
Monsters.

Three hours later and the pub had filled up with a slightly different clientele. Still no media types but there were now more women, some of them normal, non- alcoholics though they possibly would be in years to come. Booze this cheap is dangerous, it's a slippery slope and before you know it the landlord’s sold you two bottles when you only wanted a couple of glasses. These women brought with them a strong wave of perfume and hairspray, a fresh smell that made me feel distinctly shabby, so I pin-balled (this is definitely my new move) towards the Ladies loos which smelt like pine and pee.

My reflection was shocking, even with two bottles of rose and a Malibu I looked terrible. My hair all backcombed from where I’d been leaning against the ageing Velvet headrest and my eyes all sunken into the back of my head. Mascara had run down my face though I couldn’t remember crying. Well only a little when they’d played Desperado but nothing to warrant this face. I ran my hands under the tap and tried to pat my hair down with some water. I would have gone home and had a bath if I hadn’t been so afraid of going back to ‘Shady Sands’. Then as I came out of the Ladies, my phone went. I answered it, half thinking it might be Phil. I needed some company, any company but it wasn’t, it was Ruth again.
‘Frankie told me you got sent home, what happened?’
Her voice sounded all high pitched and hysterical. Not the lovely laid back Ruth I loved.
‘I threw a cup of coffee at a customer, no big deal. He deserved it.’
‘You sound drunk. You’re not in a pub are you?’
It seemed to be the only conversation we were having, the pub conversation. I tried to cover the receiver so she couldn’t hear the perfumed women and the fat- necked men listening to 10CC.
‘I’m doing a bit of shopping, I’m in Whiteley’s. Thought I’d make myself something nice for smee.’
Drat. If only I’d managed to say tea.
‘Right that’s it, I’m coming to pick you up,’ Ruth sounded stern, ‘Where are you?’
I hung up straight away. I’m not stupid. I knew she meant it.

It took me longer than usual to get home. This might have been because I got on the Hammersmith and City line going in the wrong direction and ended up in Baker Street. It was about eight o’ clock by the time I walked up to the entrance of the flats. I couldn’t see any sign of them, the kids. And for a few seconds I couldn’t help thinking that I’d imagined everything; the blind man, the charred fish, the rifle. But then I saw Grey limping towards me. He was about two hundred yards away when he waved. I had to steady myself against the doorframe, one part drunk, three parts full of fear.

‘What you up to tonight Check Yo’Self?’ he asked.
What was this? Were we friends? Was I suddenly part of the gang?
I tried to stay cool. He bent down and scratched at the skin on his calf, under the bandana. It looked red and angry.
‘What happened? Did you hurt yourself?’ I asked.
I wasn’t a chicken, I could talk normally. There was no way he would suspect that I was the one who had tried to shoot his leg off.
‘Someone tried to shoot us last night,’ he said and pulled himself up onto the wall so he was sitting no less than six feet from me.
‘That’s terrible,’ I said shakily, ‘who would do such a thing?’
‘Whoever it was, they don’t know how to use a gun. Could have been worse though,’ he shrugged.
It was difficult to get eye contact with him because he kept looking at the ground just next to my left shoe. I couldn’t tell whether he was shy or this was some new way of communicating. I looked down at his bandana-clad calf as I spoke.
‘I’m sorry to hear someone shot at you. Was it one of those gang war kind of things?’
Grey laughed. When he laughed the colour swam into his cheeks and he looked alive, normal, almost sweet. He had two discoloured teeth at the front that were paler than the rest.
‘No, we’re not involved in that stuff,’ he said.
I’d thought all kids were involved in that stuff. Perhaps he was worried I’d snitch on him. Dob him into the police. Gang war was all the rage, he couldn’t NOT be involved.
‘Why are you talking to me?’ I asked, ‘you don’t normally.’
‘No reason… well actually there is sort of a reason,’ he paused and looked down at the space next to my foot, ‘Could you get us some alcohol? If you’re going to the shop?’
I set my bag down at my feet. He momentarily glanced at my uniform scrunched up inside.
‘Café Jingo,’ he said, ‘I like it there but it’s too expensive. I’m not paying four pound for a bit of coffee with ice in it.’
‘Look I don’t really think it’s appropriate...’ I was aware that I was swaying as a spoke and grasped the door with more determination, ‘I mean you’re not old enough…’
For the first time he looked directly into my eyes. They were light brown, almost yellow with tiny flecks of green in them.
‘Come on.’ he said, then smiled, ‘You like a drink don’t you?’
I found myself nodding. Then I closed the door and moved towards him. Just one drink wouldn’t do any harm. And it was better than lying on the sofa with nothing but reality TV and binoculars for company.
He held his hand out and offered it to me.
‘My name’s Stephen,’ he said.