rotters

EPILOGUE
The distinguished and now retired english thespian, Alexander McKeith sat opposite his doctor. His tight white knuckles betrayed his sauve and almost omnipotent exterior. His voice as rich as a fine port and cracked like a thousand year oak as he said - “So, that's it then...”

Chapter one

Alexander McKeith sat upstairs in The Harp, Covent Garden. Along the amber walls were black and white photographs of dim and distant stars of stage and screen. He looked around at them, almost as if they were spectres sat around him. Alex's eyes hooded yet alert, looked around – meeting each of their gazes as he raised his half empty glass of scotch to the walls. In his rich, fruity baritone, he announced:

“Go fuck yourselves...”

And down the fiery and fearsome liquid went. Dashed against his still pearly white teeth, despite his 78 years on earth. And especially despite his 40 a day cigarette habit and love of strong black coffee. The dark toffee-brown table squeaked in reslience as he leaned on it to cock his legs up upon it.

“Oh shush will you...” He chastised it with a gentle smile. He could smell the sausage sandwich being griddled for him, and a wide glow of a grin slowly exploded across his face, like ink across water. His hands cupping his head and resting againt the wall, knocking skew-whiff another framed photo.

Alex pulled a slight face as he looked at who he brushed against.

“Oh do pardon me dear boy, who are you? Joss? Joss Ambler? Oh I remember you...you cunt. Miserable little man...Do fuck off.”

He dismissed the nudging with a wave of the hand and resumed his pose. Inhaling deeply, almost snuff-like of the waft of sausage.

Alexander McKeith was a somewhat famous actor. A title given to him by Sir Alec Guiness, which always annoyed Alexander greatly. Famous enough for people to turn and think “hmmm...where do I know him from? Can't remember...” - or “i recognise the voice, did you do that advert on the radio?”. Either of which would cause Alex to erupt, volcano-like into a long list of work of both stage and screen. Name dropping like they were land-mines. And Alex WAS a very fine actor – yet never quite as famous as the sum of his parts. Which were many and varied.

A scientist in the third Bond movie. Richard Burton's understudy for Hamlet and Camelot. Appearances on The Sweeney, The Professionals, Dr. Who, and even a small interview on Parkinson which got cut at the last minute. Which Alex never liked to talk about, unless he had four large scotches in his large but scrawny frame.

His second wife described him as somewhat of an irish wolf-hound. Long, lean and scraggly. Lazy at times, and full of fun and playfulness when you least expected it. Proud, protective when the chips were down. And the best lover she'd ever had. She was quoted as saying all this in a sunday tabloid in the mid 70s and his profile rose again. As did his long list of conquests.

Critics were often kind too.

“A rich honeyed voice, part Burton, part Cushing, part Baker. And a delivery to match.”

“A beautifully balanced performance – wit, gravitas and a physical pressence not seen on stage since Burton.”

“Amongst the brambles and the weeds, McKeith stood out as proud as Oliver Reed at a knees up in a pub!”

Alex would grumble to his agent, Johan Mees - “Always with the fucking comparisons he'd often complain. Why can't they just talk about ME without any other fucker getting a mention?”

Alex found himself dozing, so righted himself with two things. One, he necked the remaining scotch in one, and two – bellowed in his fruity tambre “Jeff? Jeff my dear boy...where is that fucking sandwich?”.

“Coming!”

“Ah bless you my dear sir, and a double grouse if you would be so kind...”

And both shortly arrived, Alex now sat upright, still looking like a white haired irish wolf-hound, with a slightly unkempt beard. Dressed in black, save for a green paisley cravat loosely tied, and a long herringbone trenchcoat folded neatly over the back of the chair next to him.

The barmaid who brought his delights, a gently rotund eastern european woman in her late 20s offered her most pleasant of smiles. Alex eyed her warmly as he spoke - “My dear girl, what delights you bring me. And so soon you depart. Leave me with your beauty and your charm via your delightful smile...”

She nodded, not understanding a word of it. Alex took a sip of his scotch as she went back downstairs. “Nice tits my girl...” he snorted to himself as he lifted up a well griddled sandwich to his large and generous mouth.
Amongst his slow demolishion of the sausage sandwich, it irked Alex that he had no condiments to embelish it with. So with another small sip of scotch and a loud cough (which also ejected a partially chewed piece of pig to fly through the air with the greasiest of ease) – he shouted: “My good man... may one be so gracious as to give me some good old english mustard or perchance, so of that delicious brown sauce the commoners use?”

And as he asked this, a small, stocky man sat at the bar pricked his ears up. A quizzical dash of images and memories flashed and danced across his craggy old face. He put down his paper, finished his pint and mimed to the barkeep that he'd take the items up to him.

Each step brought Eric Cleaver a fresh yet old memory. “If thats McKeith i'll be amaaaaaaaazed!”. Then flashes of them being at university together, Alex joining Eric's art classes “for the birds, dear boy, for the birds.”. And Eric always shamefully apologising for his actor-friend's debauched behaviour the next day to some young arty girl crying her koal-ringed eyes out like a panda peeling onions.

Eric thought - “I can't fucking believe this...is it him?” He softly kicked the door open. And Alex's voice greated it like a hurricane.

“AAAaaaahhhhh! Good man! I must liven this thing up with a dash of the sauce...what have you brough...”

Silence in mid sentence. There was a first, thought Eric. And there they both were. Alex, sausage contraption paused mid-flight towards hoary old gob, and Eric standing there with mustard in one hand, brown sauce in the other. Both pairs of eyes widened. Sauces delivered and sandwich placed slowly back on plate – in complete and utter silence. Then, in unision.

“Well...fuck me!”

Alex rose up, cackling and hacking in glee as he zoomed over to great his old friend. Arms like a dervish, patting on the back, feeling of forearms, hands taken in hands, then Alex's long thin hand on Eric's mottled and embarrassed face and a swift kiss on the cheek.

Eric flinched “Fuck off with that will ya!”.

“Ha, embrace me you little fucking toad! How good to see you! How good to see you...how GOOD! My oh my..let me look at you you beautiful little pug you...and how is Margeret?”

“Dead...”

“oh...well...how....”

Eric frowned and replied “how what?”

Alex's eyes were wet. He spoke softly “my dear eric, i'm so sorry...do sit down...tell me everything...”

And so he did. They both did. Friends that had drifted apart because, well, life just does that sometimes to friends. The elasticity of friendships, the inherent power within each of them has a time limit, a life span. The one between Eric and Alex seemed to defy that. They sat opposite each other, slowly remembering so much between them. And though they'd not been in contact for nearly 20 years, it soon felt only days had passed since they were in a similar pub, talking about similar things, in a similar way.

As Alex's career took off, a bright young thing from the late 50s, full of kitchen sink dramas and music taking over the planet with gyrating hips and curling lips; Eric's career did too. Sculpture. In bronze and glass. Very popular in Spain when the sixties came bursting into life. Both based in London still, and neither wanting to move due to the huge influx of readily available vaginas, parties, drugs and booze. But also, these two men just seemed to compliment one another.

Alex the loud and sexually magnificient; charming, eloquent and thoroughly beastial between the sheets. And Eric the quieter, calmer, yet intensely burning, passionate man who spoke softly yet with an inner strength that was apparent to all he met.

From the sixties to the late seventies, both men became (almost) giants of their fields. Films, plays and tv called for Alex, every major gallery from spain to new york showed Eric's work. Both had mad a small fortune, both had been married. Alex had finished his fourth by 2002, and stayed single ever since. Eric married the once...

“In 1979 it was Al...” Eric tone was soft, cockney and had a subtle croak to it. “Thats when Marge and me got married. You remember?”

“I'm afraid I was off my tits my good man...i'd taken some acid. Unless you were all dressed as peacocks, you were all just a glorious beacon of colour and sounds...”

“You twat. I forgot about that. Tripping at a wedding. Lawd. So yeah, 79 it was. And she got cancer four years ago mate...we all did our best, and I can only be grateful that she went peacefully.”

Alex nodded rapidly, and patted Eric's hand. Eric coughed and spoke - “I forgot how bleedin' touchy-feely you are – stop it!”.

“Pfft. Nonsense my old fruit. You've always loved it, and you know it! These fingers have been up Elizabeth Taylor i'll have you know!”.

They both snorted, knowing it to be a filthy lie, but one he'd tell at dinner parties to provoke a reaction. More drinks were ordered via Alex's booming baritone.

Eric whispered “they don't DO table service mate...”

Alex pulled a “i couldn't give a shit” face and finished his sandwich. And through his maw a tumble-dryer of pig-flesh and epiglotal gyrations, he spoke - “Of course they do, they just don't acknowledge it officially...now, Eric my dear friend...lets have one more, and we shall toddle off to a private gentlemans club that I know...”.

“Oh no, I can't mate...gotta go soon, got funeral arrangements to make.”

“When is it?”

“Nine days time...My kid Polly can't make it over...she's...”

“still a selfish bitch?”

Eric looked half sad, half angry.

“I apologise – not my business. If she can't make it over from South Africa, then I shall offer my services. Whatever you need my dear friend, its yours.”

“What? No...i couldn't....”

“Of COURSE you couldn't...thats why i'm insisting. Where are you living these days?”

“I had to sell the house mate...we went private, and the treatments and everything else...i'm not skint...just waiting for some cheques to clear...i'm staying up here in the Strand Palace hotel.”

“That shithouse? Then you shall stay with me. I'll send someone round to collect your things, and then we shall make plans. “

“But...”

“No fucking arguing you little bastard. Alex is here to help.”

“Why do I feel scared?”

“Ha. No need at all. Right, a quick bit of shopping, then we'll grab a cab back to mine. Not far from here really.”

And so it began. Despite Alex's retirement, he still had connections, friends, and people who did “things” for him. And true to his word, after two single malts were purchased, as well as some green rizla papers, tobacco and a very large bag of what appeared to be random items grabbed off the shelves – they were away to Alex's flat, just off a sidestreet close to Holborn tube.

A phonecall was made to a person unknown, and within the hour – Eric's stuff (and hotel bill) were delivered with no fuss or fumble.

It was now quickly approaching 7pm. And Alex, as ever, had a plan.

“Tonight my salty little sea-urchin, I suggest this...we get absolutely wankered and high. I insist!”.

“Aw, Al, come on now...we're grown ups...”

“So fucking what? That mean we can't cut loose? Can't catch up and fucking well smile in the face of adversity? Come, come Eric – you know me better than that. Bollocks to it. Let's write a note of apology to our future selfs and let's have, as you would charmingly call it – a right old natter...”

“aaah..i dunno mate...its all a bit...”

And then, as if by magic, two joints appeared at Alex's elegantly tapered digits. He wiggled them in front of Eric's eye line like two femurs dancing in the ether.

Eric couldn't help but smile. “Aw, you know I love grass... go on then...you'll never stop getting me into trouble will ya...”

“never my dear chap, and thats a promise...now spark up and lets get high”. They both smiled warmly, absolutely from the heart, at one another.

So there they sat, in the living room, both encased in a burgundy leather chair each, all arms and studs like a gay sailor. Lighters, more joints and ashtrays were divvied up. Alex smiled as the first deliciously heavy fug of weed came slowly electrifying his spine and enveloping his synapses. He produced a remote control and said -

“And lets not forget this sonic sonnet...” as he pushed a button. And from each corner of the room came Pink Flloyd's Interstellar Overdrive.

Eric cracked a huge grin as he spoke “Ah...blimey...remember this eh... those two birds we met in Soho...”.

“Camden sir, t'was camden by the lock....”

“Ah yeah...course...course...” Eric took a large lug of his somewhat splintered joint. Dark and amber fragments re-lit as they raced up their paper shell. He held the smoke down for...seven seconds, Alex silently counting to himself, as he always did.

Then the exhale, and out came the heavy ghost of the joint. It seemed to hang and flutter between the two old friends. Small tendrils and shapeshifting clouds twisted and turned till they just softly dissapeared from sight.

More music, more weed and scotch. Eric was talking about nursing his wife through her treatment, money worries, then sales of old work to recoup some. Then the sale of the house after she died. They both cried together, despite or even because of their rogue-ish qualities – and they general childishness – these two men were as strong as good brothers can be. They could share the deepest and the darkest of all things.

And when a devil's darkness encloaked them – it wasn't long before the other could turn that cloak into angel's wings and set themselves free of whatever pain troubled them at the time. Voices were cleared, bittersweet laughter as they caught their breath and a grim smile of solidarity overtook their faces.

Alex spoke first - “Hey. You will survive my dearest friend. And beyond that, you shall grow and become a new version of you...in time.” They held each others hands in a Romanesque arm lock, both tight lipped and heads nodding softly.

Then, after a swift break for a strong coffee, Alex turned the music off and stood up. Checking his hair in the large victorian mirror as he took the living room stage.

Alex spoke out – his voice flying in rich and velvety glory...

“And this is for you, dearest Margo...

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

And much like the curtains calling, tears came again, grief flashed like lighting, light camera bulbs, like stage lights. Tears of loss of a dear-hearted woman, of years lost, of love gone. And yet also to be glad to have experienced it at all. So tears eventually became smiles, and the knowing that despite the pain and the feeling of a soul being ripped asunder, the bitter truth became slightly sweeter – that life has to go on. Much like the show. Love can never truly leave you if you let it in.

And so, two old men fell upon their cups and weed, and sipped and smoked themselves into a deep and binding stupor. Safe and sound snoring in unison, just like they did when they first shared digs together – in a huge victorian burgundy chair each. Eric curled up fetus like, taking comfort in leathered arms.

And Alex stretched out like the wolf-hound he was, all extremities and languid lankiness. And a gentle stream of dribble molten like running down his beard. In an awkward haze of half awake, he muttered - “To sleep, perchance to dre....”. And slipped back off into slumber with Eric, farting solidly in the background, as if releasing a large frightened elk out of a catapult off into a canyon.

Though it would never be said, there was a true love between Eric and Alex, a transcendence of brotherhood. A bond that never seemed to crack nor break despite decades of being apart, or the occasional argument. No malice was ever borne out from such things. They were transient, the friendship ever-present.