11. Lemon Sherbet

Thursday 15th December 2005

And then sometimes you see a life change in front of your eyes. Literally. One moment it's one thing, the next it's something else.

For instance... I'm standing at this road crossing one day, waiting to go over. There's this other young guy standing beside me ' shades on, phones in his ears, music going. Student, he looks like. The traffic's moving quickly enough on our side, coming out of the city centre. On the other side, though, it's stop-start ' backed up from a roundabout further on in. A bus over there, too long to get across in one go, pulls up on the line. For a second, I think it's because the lights have changed and I nearly step off the kerb before I realise. The young guy, though ' caught up in his music ' strides onto the road and gets laid out across the bonnet of a Toyota. His legs snap like chicken bones. The car skids to a stop and his head bounces off the windscreen, spider-webbing it.

Two seconds. That's all it takes. I can still hear the music pumping out of his phones, like a soundtrack.

Someone screams.

Then the green man lights up, saying 'Walk'.

.

And then there was last night in Mad Mack's. About half-seven. A bit smaller than the usual midweek crowd ' but then Christmas is coming. The regulars were there, anyway. Denise had some bluesy stuff playing, nice and low. Right then it was 'What a Diff'rence a Day Makes' by sweet darlin' Dinah ' a song that always mellows me out. And mellowing out was what I needed.

I was perched at the bar with Sherlock. We'd just got our second pints in and things were starting to bubble nicely. I'd been giving him the lowdown on work ' such as it was. The false starts. The saggy middles. The sentences written in gold in your head, but which turned to crap on the page ' a kind of alchemy in reverse. I had got one idea, though, that I was running by him. A play. Something inspired by my midnight walk around Mariner Plains, with all those dark, empty rooms.

"The set-up's straightforward enough, I said. "There's these three blokes, all mates at the same factory. And they all get together one winter evening in the flat of one of them. He lives on the thirtieth floor of a tower block. So they're just up there, above the streets, sharing some cans, snooker on the telly. You get the idea.

"Sounds very cosy, said Sherlock. "I'm interested already.

I took the top off my pint.

"Right. So, there they are anyway¦ having a drink, smoking their smokes, watching the game, everything normal. Then all of a sudden¦ pop! The electric goes off. Power cut. No telly. No lights. No lifts. So they're stuck there, thirty floors up, with nothing but their beers, their fags, a packet of pork pies and a box of candles.

Sherlock stared at his glass for a moment ' turning things over, so I thought. Then he raised the peak of his hat and looked at me from underneath it.

"Right, he said. "And?

"Well, that's it. That's the situation they're in. All they can do now is talk.

He sniffed. "So¦ what do they talk about?

"Well, that's what comes next, I said. "I've got to work on that. But I thought the idea was good, you know. Like a¦ social archetype, if you wanna be clever about it. A bunch of people gathered 'round a flame in the dark, sharing a drink, spinning some yarns. And that's the point ' they're doing what people have forgotten to do. Tell tales. The telly's ruined all that. So the power cut is like saying 'switch the fucking thing off and talk again.' Right?

He was thoughtful again for a moment, screwing his eyes up, then opening them wide, then screwing them up again ' and each time he did it, his deerstalker rocked back and forth on his head.

"Right, he said. He took out his baccy pouch. "Though, of course¦ they could always use the stairs, couldn't they? Get down that way? I mean, that's what I'd do.

I shook my head. I give up with him sometimes.

"But it's a play, mate. If they did that, the audience would be asking for a refund before they'd even opened their sweets. You wouldn't do that, anyway. When you have a power cut, you don't know how long it's going to be. So you just sit tight. And that's it.

He rolled his fag. Listening.

"The point is to get these blokes together, in a situation where they can't do anything else except talk. See, they've known each other for years at work. Or they think they have. Because they've never really had to talk before. And now they're forced to, 'cos there's nothing else.

He stewed on that one a moment as he poked the fag into his mouth and lit up. He blew a cloud out over the bar, then picked some baccy from his lip.

"Just like we're doing, you mean? Talking?

"Well, yeah¦ in a way.

He took a sup of his pint and sniffed again.

"So¦ so why don't you just set the play in a pub, like this?

That was it. There wasn't any point. This wasn't going to go anywhere.

"Distractions, mate, were my final words. "Think about it. A pub's full of them. Look around you.

So he did. And so did I. At Denise, on her stool down the end of the bar, having a cackle with Suzie and Trina. At the Beasley Boys, dealing their cards. At Oakie and Dudley and Craig, huddled around the fruit machine. At Mole in his corner, straining to look at his paper in the smoke-filled light. At Lemon, watching the silent screen, like a kid with a computer game. Everyone collected in one small place ' but each in their own little universes, too. It was exactly the point I was trying to make. All together, but separate. Known, but not.

"So¦ what's it called, then? said Sherlock at last.

"'Fuse', I said, wearily. "Double meaning. The lights fusing. The blokes bonding.

"Hm, he said. "Now, that sounds good. I like that title.

But I wasn't really listening to him any more. It wasn't rudeness.

It was Lemon.

I was still looking at him. He'd changed. His eyes, usually quite saggy and sad-looking behind his glasses, suddenly took on the size and roundness of ping-pong balls. His head ratcheted up a couple of notches, so that the hunch in his shoulders disappeared ' like someone had pumped him full of gas. His mouth, normally clamped in a jowly inverted U ' like his lower lip had been hitched to his nose ' dropped open. His hand was clamped on his half-empty glass, like he wanted to pick it up but it was glued to the table. Either that or all the strength in him ' probably very little to start with ' had just drained away through the soles of his Hush Puppies.

I nudged Sherlock and nodded in Lemon's direction.

"Oh, fuck, he said when he saw him. "I've heard about this. There's some condition where they become hypnotised by the images on the screen and go into a catatonic trance. The Soviets used it for subliminal brainwashing.

At that moment, Dinah finished her sweet old song and Muddy Waters kicked in with 'Got My Mojo Working'. It seemed to do the trick. Lemon snapped back to life again. His head rocked forwards.

"FUCK! he said, plainly and simply ' but loud enough for the pub to stop in mid-flow and look.

It was quite a shock. No one had heard him speak so loudy before. And no one had heard him use words like that, either. At last he looked away from the screen, pulled off his glasses and pressed his hands into his face ' like he was trying to remould it to make himself look like someone else.

Things were starting to get a little shifty in the bar by now. Denise leant over and switched off the tape. I glanced at Sherlock, who looked remarkably sober all at once. He leaned forwards over the bar, pushing his hat to the back of his head.

"You okay there, Lem? he called out. "You need a drink or something, matey?

Lemon took his hands away from his face and looked up. Then he put his glasses back on, stood up and walked over to the bar. He leant against it with his arms outstretched on the top, like he was waiting to be frisked by the police. His eyes were fixed on the gallon bottle of whisky that was hanging up there among the other optics.

"I think, he began, quietly and precisely, "that I'll have a little change for once. He pointed at the whisky bottle. "I think I'll have three large ones of that. All in the same glass, please, Denise.

Sherlock jerked up on his stool like his underpants had spontaneously inflated. And understandably. A drink's one thing: six at once is taking the piss. But before he could say anything, Lemon took a screwed-up £20 note from his own back pocket and laid it on the counter. Denise got him his drink and handed over his change. Lemon then brought the glass to his lips with both hands, like he was receiving communion, and took the whole lot down in three swallows. He sighed like a punctured tyre as he put the glass down, staring into the bottom of it as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done. Then he looked up at the bottle again and cleared his throat.

"I've always been a bit of a late starter, he said. "I didn't have my first drink until I was twenty. Didn't have a girlfriend until I was twenty-three. Twenty-five when I finally lost my virginity. Thirty before I left home. I got married at thirty-five, and divorced at forty-one.

You could hear a spider fart. I glanced at Sherlock for some kind of encouragement. I wanted some reassurance that I wasn't quite as far gone as the thing I'd heard had made me feel. But his eyes were fixed firmly on Lemon ' who at that moment pulled two more £20s out of his pocket and slapped them down on the bar with his pile of change.

"Drinks for everyone, he said.

Then he looked around at the river of blank faces.

"I think now, if you'll all excuse me for not joining you, that I ought to be heading home before I fall over and never get up again.

With that, he did a smart about-turn, set his jaw, sniffed loudly, pulled his coat together and marched out into the night like he knew exactly where he was going and wanted to get there very quickly.

The bar remained silent for a few more moments. Then Mole coughed again with obvious relief.

"What in the name of my dear old uncle Bob's bollocks was all that about? he said.

No one answered. They were all doing the same mental arithmetic, which isn't one of Mole's talents. He's the only garage owner I know who lets his customers work out their own bills. It looked to me like about £2.50 a head.

"So, people, Denise said at last, picking up the cash. "Now the cabaret's over¦ who's for what?

It was whisky across the board. While Denise did the honours, the bar started to return to normal. Those types of outbursts weren't uncommon ' the town's got a few special homes ' but people were still a bit spooked.

"It's that lager and lemon shit, Sherlock said. "There's a nerve agent they put in those soft drinks, you know. It builds up in the brain over time. Fucks up the circuitry. I've seen it before.

While everyone was chewing on that one, I looked over at Lemon's table again. His half pint was still sitting there, untouched. Not wishing to see good beer go to waste ' psychotic chemicals or not ' I went over to get it. The glass was half-way to my mouth when the TV screen caught my eye. I didn't even hear the glass smash when it hit the floor.

"Christ! What did I just tell you? Sherlock yelled, lurching over from the bar.

But my eyes were stuck on the screen in the same way that Lemon's had been. There was a news programme on and they were repeating the Lottery results. The numbers were superimposed on the bottom of the picture.

20 23 25 30 35 41

You could have heard a flea fart, then ' until Sherlock shattered the ice with uncharacteristic conciseness and comprehensibility.

"Fuck my old plimsolls! he said.

There was nothing else to say.