From a clifftop

From a Clifftop

Oh fuck. How the fuck did we get here? I can't believe it Oh, what's he
fucking gone and done? And it's raining now and I can't stop giggling.
Why the fuck am I laughing? Stop fucking grinning. Shit, it's just the
weed. Shit.

Oh fuck. I couldn't stop him. I've called an ambulance - miracle that
the phone worked out here. It can't handle a fucking multi-storey . . .
but cliff tops? No problem. Fucksake. But shit, what if they think I
pushed him? What if they think we had a fight or something? Fuck, what
do they care about him?

I've never seen nothing like that before. He lost it completely last
night, shouting and running about and shit, like something out of
fucking trainspotting or something. Shit, it was only spliff. What if
this ambulance brings a police car with it and they've got one of them
kits that detects drugs on your clothes or something? But maybe that's
just for coke, I can't remember. God, we couldn't calm him down. He was
shouting and waving his arms about and grabbing people by the shoulders
and shaking the shit out them -- poor little Steve, I thought he was
going to shit himself. "I fucking understand!" he kept shouting. Stupid
git. "I fucking understand."

He'd fucking lost it. We didn't know what he was talking about.
"Understand what?" I said to him, but he couldn't hear me or nothing. I
had to hold on to him just to stop him running about. He was knocking
things over and kicking them about and I didn't want him to hurt no
one. He's been like this once before, you see. Oh, nothing like as bad
and we got him clamed down pretty quick that time. I don't think he
could even hear me last night. I had him pulled right up close, holding
him, trying to bring him down. Fuck, there were people all over,
shouting and talking, telling him and me to focus. Focus? Fucksake. He
was fucking drenched in sweat, but like . . . cold. He stopped shouting
after a bit, I think he was out of breath, so much fucking shouting,
but he was still whispering. Whispering as I was holding him down. "I
can see." He kept saying, but he wasn't looking at me - he was looking
right through me, like there was someone behind me or something. "I can
see," he says. I fucking know you can see, mate. Course you can see.
"So simple," he says. "So easy." Then he went all heavy, you know, like
people do when they pass out. Never've thought he was such a fat
bastard.

Oh fuck, I should've known something was wrong when we came down next
morning and he'd shit himself. Just shat in his pants where I'd left
him on the sofa. He was fucking awake, as well, lying on his side on
the sofa, eyes and mouth open, fucking dribbling and crying at the same
time. Well, not really crying, like, but there were tears all over his
face. He must have known, but he'd done nothing about it.

"Fucksake," I said to him. "You've fucking shit all over my
sofa."

But he doesn't even fucking look up. "I said you've shit on my sofa you
arsehole."

"Doesn't matter," he says after a bit, not even looking at me.

"What?" I said to him. I mean, he was pissing me off now. Look, we've
all been wrecked, but you can't go and shit on someone's sofa. Then he
looks up at me.

"It doesn't fucking matter. You'll never fucking understand." Then he
gets this weird look on his face, but he's still not looking at me.
"Nothing we ever do ever fucking matters. And do you know why? No. And
neither do I because I've fucking forgotten." And then he doesn't move
again for hours.

And now look at him. Fucking hell. Not moving now either. I've gotta
stop fucking grinning. Oh shit, look at his legs. Mine are shaking like
fuck.

After a bit we had to move him. He was smelling like shit - well, I
suppose he would - and he wouldn't go and clean himself. He was just
lying there with a fucking pool of spit on the cushion around his
mouth. Honestly, if it weren't for him muttering when I kicked him, I'd
have thought the fucker'd passed out again. In the end I had to half
carry him up the stairs and put him in the bath, but he wouldn't do
anything. He just lay there. Fucker. I mean, I've cleaned him up before
and he's done the same for me, but only vomit. I've never wiped his
arse before. Fucking hairy ugly sight it is, too. I don't know why I
didn't see that something was really fucking wrong with him. He
shouldn't still haven been that fucked. I even had to dress him
afterwards.

We took two cars out to the coast. It's not far and someone thought
that a bit of countryside would do us all good. You know, walk about in
the cold, have a smoke looking out to sea. "Life is just one long
search for new and interesting places to smoke." That's what he used to
say all the fucking time. Thought it made him some kind of fucking
philosopher.

All the way out there he just sat in the back staring straight ahead
like he wasn't really seeing anything, like he was tripping, but he
couldn't've been. I know he had nothing on him, I'd just fucking bathed
him and dressed him in my clothes. Clara wouldn't stop asking him
questions all the way there and he wouldn't stop ignoring her. "What's
wrong?" She kept saying and brushing his hair like he was her friend.
Bitch. "What happened last night?" She kept on and on at him and he
kept on staring straight ahead. But just as we're pulling up in the car
park and everyone's getting out she says to him, "What did you see?"
and he turns to face her, and says, "Everything. I saw . . . I knew
everything. I understood you. All of you. But now I can't remember a
fucking bit of it and you'll never have the slightest fucking clue what
I've lost. None of you stupid fuckers ever will."

Stupid cunt. He never had the slightest fucking clue what he had to
begin with. And now he's fucking lost everything. Stupid broken little
shit.

We got out of the car and walked towards the cliffs. It'd been raining
in the night and the ground was wet and muddy and it was cold as fuck.
Everyone was fucking blowing into their hands and flapping their arms
about and making 'brrrr' noises like they were fucking Janet
Street-Porter ramblers or something. It's about half a mile from the
cars to the cliffs and I walked at the back with him. He was still
acting weird. Fuck, I shouldn't have made him come. It was like he was
sleepwalking or something, not really looking where he was going. I
took my eyes off him for a bit and he got ahead of me. Next thing I
know is he's fallen down in some muddy shit and is on his fucking face
on the floor. Everyone was pissing themselves and shouting at him and
shit. I don't think he even fucking heard them. He just got up and
looked down at his trousers - my fucking trousers, covered in all kinds
of crap - and starts to take them off. Just like steps out of
them.

Oh fuck. Well, I'd given him my trousers, yeah, but I was bollocked if
I was going to give him any of my pants to go shitting in again. So he
just stood there in the freezing fucking cold, naked from the waste
down, with this stupid windcheater thing on, not covering anything.
Then he just carries on walking, like he was before. But everyone's
stopped now and they don't know what to do for a second. Then they're
all fucking laughing. Harder than before and screaming, some of them.
Someone pushes him over again but he doesn't even look at the fucker as
he gets up, just carries on walking. Oh fuck, I didn't even think where
he was going. I ran up to him. "What the fuck are you doing? You're
fucking naked!" I say to him, but he just carries on fucking walking.
"They were muddy," he says, like it's the most normal fucking thing in
the world.

The others are running off now, towards the cars and I run after them.
"Where the fuck are you going?" I shouted. Dave stops and looks back.
"Fuck, man," he shouts. "He's fucked. Fuck this."

"Yeah. He's your fucking friend," shouts someone else.

Arseholes.

And they just fucking drove off, screaming out of the fucking
windows.

And when I turned around he wasn't there.