Nights Out

The boy had never felt so alone. Sometimes the sky felt so high it was beyond reach but now its black mass was oppressively close, overwhelming and almost suffocating. He splayed his hand out an inch from his face and could barely distinguish it from the night. This made him laugh a little, nervously. What if the sky should swallow him? Who could stop it? There were a few stars, blinking. Or maybe they were aeroplanes, en route to Majorca. The boy wished they were going somewhere more exotic, like Russia or India, but Majorca was more likely. He knew his city, had lived here for the whole seventeen years of his existence. Seventeen wasn’t very old; in terms of the planet’s historical tapestry he was a mere speck. Insignificant. That was the right word to describe how the sky made him feel too: insignificant. He mouthed it silently. The five syllables appeared sharp and angry. Or was it just that he was angry? Why would he be angry – it hadn’t been such a bad day?

One of the stars had vanished. He figured that meant it had been a plane. Unless he’d just witnessed its final dying gasps. Only, hadn’t they been taught that some stars were so far away, by the time the light reached Earth you might be looking at ones that had already burned out? Either way: death throes. It bothered him; he tried to spot the aeroplane by tracing each of its possible journeys, but could find no moving objects. Perhaps the sky had swallowed the plane. Pretty different destination to Majorca, he reckoned. That was funny, in a sick way. Was he sick? He focused on the panic and screams as the metal bird twisted and disintegrated; a mother shoving the oxygen mask over her toddler’s face; the kid choking on its own terrified snot, uncomprehending. This vision, the human details, made him wince and shove-eject it from his brain. No, he wasn’t sick.

Remembering the bottle planted between his feet, the boy retrieved it and took a jerky swig. Some liquid spilled down his chin and he wiped it off with his bare arm. Would a serial killer get off on the thought of planes being ripped apart mid-air? Maybe the lack of control would be too disturbing. He wondered, not for the first time, how it felt to kill someone, to look down on a body stilled forever by your own desire. How could you not crack up, feeling the heavy cloud of your deeds hovering over every sandwich you ate, every time you took a dump? Were all serial killers devoid of conscience or was the adrenaline rush instantly addictive, too good to give up? Fuck, where was the line? He knew he’d killed ants, must have done simply by walking around. Plus he’d deliberately killed a few wasps and spiders in his time. Thwack. Was that murder? Fishermen and people working in abattoirs didn’t necessarily progress to killing people, and presumably slept OK at night. So did the line begin with your own species? Or was it all about method and deliberation? Luring a neighbour’s cat into your microwave probably signalled crossing the line.

Could you kill a cat and walk away from the whole business, like someone who tries heroin once and never spirals into addiction? Or would the taste be too much and drive you to kill another cat and another and another - until cats aren’t enough and then dogs aren’t enough and then you’re walking down the street sizing up every fellow human being like potential prey? He wondered how close the nearest murderer lived. A few miles? A few streets? Next-door to his parents? If he found out his dad had killed someone, what would he do: grass him up, leg it or just carry on as normal? No. How could anything be normal when you knew that? Did serial killers ever get out of prison and go back to their wives or mothers? Holy crap, imagine trying to sleep at night. Locks on the inside of your door…or maybe on the outside of theirs. Welcome back from prison, now please go to your room and stay there. Pretty messed up. Would it be worse to be murdered than just dying naturally? Depended on where your fear of death derived from, he guessed. With some people it was what happened to the body afterwards, of becoming an object. To be burnt by a vicar or to be buried beneath a killer’s patio, that was the question.

It all stank of indignity. The boy wanted a cigarette now, always did when meditating on mortality. He fished the packet out of his jeans, counted the filters by touch and discovered he hadn’t enough to last until morning, unless he slowed right down. He’d been smoking too much lately, since school broke up for summer. Regular wage was going to kill him. Pretty ironic, considering all the shouting his dad used to do about him not having a job. He lit up and inhaled through the web of phlegm at the back of his throat. Didn’t sound pretty. Neither did cancer. But what else to do with your hands? A starlit wank might be kind of cool, a pure Jim Carroll moment – but not right now. Some night he’d come back to this field, and try not to reflect on serial killers.

The smoke was harsh so he washed the taste away with a few more swigs from his bottle; a wet throat always helped. Somebody was tapping on his shoulder, calling his name. Reluctantly he turned to face them. You alright, Simon? You zoned out for a minute there. She wanted him to come back down to earth, back to the party. The others wanted him to come back. Someone’s iPod speakers were blaring out the latest pseudo-rock anthem. Somebody else couldn’t find the bottle-opener, and was told to use their girlfriend’s teeth. Another someone said Jonesy had been sick. He drained his bottle and reached into the stash of carrier bags for another. The elusive bottle-opener made the rounds into his hand and he prised the drink open with teenage expertise. Other people had cigarettes, he’d be fine. He tried to tune into the conversation. Emma and Wayne, I saw them getting in the taxi together…there’s no more Stella, you’ll have to move onto Fosters…I’ll do you a copy of the album if you want…so, what, are they going out now or…who drank my Stella then?…there’s schnapps as well somewhere…is it worth trying to get tickets…yeah, yeah, they’re good live… He felt guilty that none of it struck him as interesting, like a gatecrasher trying unsuccessfully to fit in.

These were his friends, then? Their faces, in the faint glow of mobile phones and a camping lantern, were contorted and alien. He took violent drags on the cigarette like he was playing a part in some moody art film, and waited to be yanked into talk. At some point there’d be an argument, over a misunderstanding or someone’s drunken insensitivity; the offended party would storm home, followed by laments and a sympathetic chaperone. One of the girls would need the toilet and refuse to try peeing al fresco; no one would offer a solution so she’d also go home and possibly not return. They’d run out of drink; someone’s dad would have more in his garage and there would be an attempted raid. Nick Jones would be sick again. Lisa would probably be sick too, make herself purge the calorific alcopops she’d consumed and then start crying. Alternatively, she’d wander off without telling anyone and there would be a half-hour of panicky texts and phone-calls – whichever Lisa deemed would achieve the most attention.

How to help Lisa? It was becoming apparent that no one could. Pretty soon she’d wind up in hospital again for a few months, where they’d force her back onto a drip and watch her going to the toilet. That had to suck. Gradually getting less invitations to these kind of parties because people just couldn’t handle the stress of making sure she didn’t hurt herself. She’d begged him to bring a piece of glass to the clinic; sitting on that sterile-white bed, scarred appendages wrapped around her bony knees – Please, Si. He could have done it, but what if she’d used the glass to kill herself? Same deal as being a murderer: you couldn’t escape knowledge of responsibility. Something suddenly stroked his knee. The hand grasping his fresh bottle jerked, spilling drops of lager on the grass and his trainers. Jade. What did she want? He hadn’t even noticed her sidle up to him, scooting purposefully across the ground on her bum. She took possession of his other hand and draped it over her leg – and he was passive as a mannequin, just allowed her to do it.

Jade was Lauren’s best friend. Lauren was in Cyprus. Lauren had almost been his girlfriend. Three weeks of coming over to his house to watch TV like nobody else owned a TV, sitting practically on his lap, asking did he fancy this girl or that girl. Fooling around. Play-fights. He’d paid for her Meatball Sub. Then Thursday, the day before she left the country. He wondered what Lauren had divulged to Jade about Thursday. It’s not like he hadn’t suspected; he’d put clean sheets on the bed, bought new boxers, showered. He wouldn’t get off on a defence plea of naivety. Turned out, he wouldn’t get off full stop. Wished they’d tried it at her house instead. He still had to sleep in that bed; the whole thing – mattress, pillows, duvet – reeked of humiliation. Lying awake, thinking of a bikini-clad Lauren smiling at sculpted Cypriot waiters; they would feed her olives and convince her to take romantic walks along the shore. How could he not be ready at seventeen? Attractive girl tugging at his belt and he felt nothing but empty, cold, a little repulsed. Why did she have to ruin everything? They’d been having a good time.

He wasn’t gay. Lauren asked if he was gay and he called her egocentric. She was pretty but so what? Didn’t make her the epitome of sexual desire, didn’t make him gay that he wanted to spend time together and attempt philosophical debates and maybe kiss her but not – not that. Not stick anything inside her just because biological design dictated that it should be so. Time was ticking. Waste of an empty house, waste of his youth. He stalled. Went to the toilet, chastised his dick – what’s the matter with you? Brought back two glasses, more whisky than coke; she didn’t like the taste, he drank them both. Didn’t mean to insult her by needing chemical assistance but she was NAKED under the sheets; not his fault that she couldn’t take a hint, couldn’t sense his reluctance as he stripped under her instruction and closed the curtains so it was less bright. Clutching the little square packet, but she took it from him, started guiding his fingers under the sheets, whispering encouragement. He felt like a stupid kid. The girl was supposed to be scared and the man was supposed to take charge, but he was no man, that much was clear now. Brushed up against the labial goal posts, a crude playground litany cycling round his brain: pussy…cunt…twat…minge… Pulled away. There was too much flesh for one bed, it felt creepy. Lauren didn’t get it. Sniffling, she gave up, put on her clothes and left.

He didn’t even see her to the door; too stunned. Cried a little after she’d gone. Life was suddenly a lot less simple. He felt excluded from something that others could take for granted - that HE’D taken for granted half an hour ago. Now it transpired he was a sexual freak, and even though that sounded like it could be a Red Hot Chilli Peppers track, it sure as shit didn’t make him feel like dancing. More like blowing his brains out. And now Jade, kneading his hand like squidgy human dough, resting her head on his shoulder and laughing softly – God, I’m so drunk. So what, he thought, does that automatically erase loyalty to your best friend? Or was this some kind of signal, Lauren telling him via Jade that they were over?

‘Over’: his turn to laugh softly, at the soap-opera melodrama of his own vocabulary. They were never even together, not really. Maybe he was drunk too, which opened a window of opportunity to act out-of-character, a window that could result in him having sex. Great. Except not great, because he wasn’t keen on Jade; she was too loud and you never felt safe kidding around with her, as she was prone to twisting a joke the wrong way, taking it personally. The boy did his best to shrug her head off his shoulder but she wouldn’t budge, nuzzled in deeper. Hot breath on his neck. Maybe he didn’t need sex to be whole. Lots of cool people didn’t have sex........................................................................................................................monks. Why could he only think of monks? Surely there was ONE openly-celibate lead guitarist out there? Nope. Tank empty: monks and nobody else. Oh, and the Pope. He didn’t want to be a monk or a pope though, just normal. If he remained a sexual freak, he’d never be able to have a girlfriend. Unless he somehow befriended a female sexual freak. Maybe, oh-please-god-if-you-exist, this was just a phase and he’d get over it. Yeah. Maybe he could make himself snap out of it.

He put his arm around Jade and kissed her nose. She sought out his lips. None of their friends were watching. In eighty years they’d all be dead, Facebook pages falling silent one by one. For now though, he was alive. Technically. Two slugs copulating in his mouth. Could Jade taste his fillings? If she had a nut allergy, would the Snickers bar he’d had at lunch kill her? And if this went on for much longer, would he vomit in both their mouths? He fixated his gaze beyond the field’s edge, on the motorway running alongside, its steady swish of headlights. He wondered whether the people stowed inside each car were in a big hurry to get somewhere, or if it just seemed that way. A few feet off, someone tried to dance and nearly fell over; people were clapping and laughing.

                                                The boy had never felt so alone.