The Fool - Chapter Thirteen =========================== I - When I wake next morning, I am not feeling much better, but the fever has at least subsided, and when Beth rings I agree to go and meet her for lunch. There is a cafe opposite the studios she's in today. Yes, I'm sure I'll find it. I am filled with a feeling of foreboding, which lessens slightly after I perform the banishing ritual once more before I leave. I cannot initially find the cafe, though, and my feeling of foreboding returns, doubled in strength. I end up walking up and down the street the cafe is on twice without managing to see the place. When I finally spot it, I feel like an idiot. How could I have missed that? Beth is already there, sitting in the window reading the paper. She looks stunning, and my stomach lurches. As I enter I approach her table, but she says, "Go and order your food first. Mine's already coming," and looks back at her paper. So. Last meal of the condemned man, I think, scanning the blackboard menu for inspiration. There is none, so I order a prawn mayonnaise salad sandwich and a cup of coffee instead, and go to sit at Beth's table. "Hi," I say. She looks up from the paper. "Hi. Are you feeling better today?" she asks. No kiss then. "Yes, much better, thanks," I tell her, and start coughing violently to prove it. "The fever's gone down, anyway," I manage to say, eventually. "Good," says Beth. II -- "Look," says Beth, "I'll say this straight away," but she doesn't, because at that moment a girl in a ridiculously ill-fitting black waitress uniform comes over with our food. "Jacket potato with cheese?" says the waitress, brightly. Beth indicates with some impatience that this is for her. "Prawn mayonnaise salad for you then," the waitress says, much less brightly, placing the sandwich before me. "Thanks," I say, attempting to smile, and making a strange shape with my face instead. "And you've already got your coffee," says the waitress, blankly. "Enjoy your meal." She vanishes. "Look," says Beth, and stops again. She sighs. I take a bite of prawn mayonnaise salad sandwich. "I really like you, Adam." She stops a third time. The prawn mayonnaise salad sandwich turns to ashes in my mouth, and my heart seems to stop. I hear the word 'but' coming from a long distance away, wearing heavy boots and a grim expression. A lone piece of lettuce escapes from the sandwich and lands on my chin." "But... hang on," says Beth. She removes the lettuce from my chin. "But I'm not going to be able to see you for a while. I've got to work out my notice and record my album and be ready to go on tour in a month and I'm going to be really busy." "Wha.." I say. "I don't want you to get upset when you find I never have time to see you any more," she continues, all in the same breath, "so I thought I'd tell you now. Better to be honest and straightforward about it." "Oh," I say. My face falls. I feel physically smaller, like I've just been deflated with a pin. "Well, thanks for being so honest," I tell her, my voice pathetic and squeaky. III --- "So that's it then?" I say. She says nothing. "I was that bad?" I say. She says nothing. My lower lip quivers, and I think, shit, I hadn't realised how into Beth I was until now. When will I learn? "It's not that," she says. "It really is that I'll be so busy I won't be able to see you." "Ok, ok. Fine," I say. I sigh heavily. "Look, it's not easy for me to do this, either, you know," she says, with a snappish tone. She fixes me with a stare from suddenly sad big eyes. "I'll miss you, Adam," I cannot hold her gaze, and I look away. "Yeah, well, fake sincerity and you've got it made," I tell her. "You what?" she says. "I'll miss you too," I say. "More than you'll know." "Oh, I know," she says. "I know. I'm sorry." I sigh again, and she suddenly says "Look, I've got to go," gets up, and leaves. She looks as if she is about to cry, but is holding back by sheer force of will. I turn and watch her through the cafe window as she disappears down the street, and in through a doorway. I turn back and finish my coffee, realising that she has not just dumped me, she has also just stiffed me for the lunch bill. Thanks, Beth. IV -- On the way home I stop off for half a bottle of whisky, thinking to myself, this is crazy, why am I so upset about a girl I've only known for a few weeks. I don't know why I am, but I am. As soon as I get in, I rip the top off the whisky bottle and take a large swig. It seems to have no effect, so I find a clean glass, fill it half full, and take a large draught. I sit down, sipping more slowly at the whisky. It's not that I feel better now, or anything, but I definitely feel less worse. I light a cigarette, and blow smoke at the ceiling. Shit. I am at once utterly self-conscious and completely cold. I can see that I am intensely upset over Beth. I am aware that the alcohol I have consumed has numbed a great portion of my senses. I am also aware that my reaction seems totally disproportionate to the length of time I have known Beth. I regard myself with contempt. The self-conscious feeling fades, and my lower lip quivers again. I take another large gulp of whisky and puff on the cigarette, determined not to cry. V - In the end, I do not cry. I get extremely drunk instead, and fall asleep in the chair at some point in the mid-afternoon. When I wake up it is nearly ten o'clock, and I am moved to treat my headache with the remainder of the glass of whisky I see before me. "Ugh." The whisky tastes fine, but the contents of my mouth do not, and I grimace. I stumble into the kitchen part of the bedsit and discover that there is absolutely nothing whatsoever to eat at all of any sort in any way shape or form. Fabulous. I had suspected this was the case. I mutter nonsense syllables as I pull my coat on, and walk to the shop at the end of the road, where I buy an instant noodle meal, a newspaper, and more whisky. The instant noodle meal is bland, and the newspaper is annoying, but the whisky is better than the other whisky was, and seems to clear my headache, for a while at least. I end up getting even more drunk than before and dozing off in the chair again, the newspaper spread unread across my knees. I wake with a start at about four in the morning, cold and aching, with an extremely unpleasant drunken wooshing between my ears making it hurt whenever I move my head. I somehow make it over to my bed and lie there, fully clothed, groaning, feeling my head sink endlessly and drunkenly down into the cold depths of the pillow. VI -- I wake with an erection, which makes me think of Beth, which makes me feel sad, cold and alone, which makes my erection subside. Wincing as I rise and am forced to move my head, I stumble over to the kettle and watch it boil, doggedly trying to ignore my hangover. Armed with tea I sit in my chair and flick through yesterday's paper. A headline I hadn't seen before catches my eye. "Two Found Dead In Brighton Mystery Car" By the headline are two photographs of people about my age, both with dreadlocks. They are named as Jason Reeves, 34, and Annie Fry, 28. Oh. My. God. Jason and Annie. What the hell? I reread the article. "Brighton police today named the couple found dead in a parked car earlier this week as Jason Reeves, 34, and Annie Fry, 28, both of Brighton. The cause of death was still unknown, a spokesman said, and confirmed that the police are regarding the death as suspicious. "We are appealing to the public for any information that might shed light on this case," said the police spokesman. Anyone with such information is requested to call Brighton CID on 01234-567890." VII --- My head spins. I read the article for a third time, and stare for a while at the pictures. It's definitely them. I feel a cold chill. I call Beth. To my surprise, she answers. "Hi," she says. "Hi." "Hi. Oh. It's you. What do you want?" "Have you heard? About Jason and Annie." "Heard what?" "Oh you haven't heard. Are you sitting down? I just read it in the paper. They were found dead in a parked car in Brighton earlier this we.. hello?" She has hung up on me. Five minutes later, my phone rings and it is her. "Sorry about that," she says as I answer, offering no explanation. "It's terrible isn't it, about Jason and Annie." "Yes," I say. "I..." "What," she asks, gently. "Well," I say. "I... I don't know." "No, go on." Her voice is coaxing. "Do you kn.. have any idea what.. what might have happened?" "Doesn't look like anyone knows," she says. "Wait. What are you trying to say?" "Nothing," I stammer. "Well I certainly had nothing to do with it, if that's what you're suggesting," she tells me. She makes a noise like a small bassoon. "Is that what you think of me, then?" "Hell no, not at all, of course not," I begin, but she cuts me off. "My bet is it was just a bad batch of pills. They were both munching pills like they were Smarties, you know. All the time. Either way, you have nothing to worry about." "Anyway." Her voice softens. "Thankyou for telling me. I really hadn't heard. Take care Adam, I have to go now. Ok?" "Ok," I mumble, as she hangs up. VIII ---- That night I go out drinking with a vengeance. It is Friday night, and everybody else seems to be doing the same thing, though I am the only one drinking alone. I don't care. I do a random walk from pub to pub, having a pint in each then tossing a coin to see if I would go to the next pub or stay and have a whisky. I end up at Garlic and Shots, a heavy metal goth bar somewhere in town where I am the only person not dressed entirely in black with dyed black hair. I don't care. The beer isn't great, but the beer isn't the point. The point is that they serve a number of extremely evil alcoholic concoctions, including one known as Harley Davidson Oil, which consists of a mixture of Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort and Jagermeister in a shot glass. I prop up the bar, a beer and Harley Davidson Oil before me. The music is loud and insistent, angular and angry. The place is decorated with skulls and weapons, and there is a leering life-size zombie in one corner. I am lost in the music. It is calming me. IX -- I was told, the last time I came here, that it is not possible to drink more than three Harley Davidson Oils. I tried then, and failed. I am on my second now. I down it and lean forward, trying to catch the attention of the pretty goth girl behind the bar and order another. Eventually, she comes over to me, and leans forward. I hold up the empty shot glass. She looks at the glass, then at me, then at the glass again, and she shrugs, turning to select the right concoction bottle from the rack arrayed before her. "She left you again, did she," says, or rather yells the girl, over the music, as she hands me my drink and smiles at me, her eyes heavy with mascara. "Huh?" I reply. "Last time you were here was ages ago, about six months I think," the girl says, "You got very drunk and told everyone that your girlfriend had just left you." "Yeah," I say, glumly. "She left me again. Different she, though." "Ah well," says the girl, regarding me with deep sympathy. "That'll be two pounds fifty please. I'm sure you'll get over it." "Thanks," I say, paying. X - I believe I finished the third Harley Davidson Oil, but I cannot be sure, for I have absolutely no memory whatsoever of the end of the evening. I was in Garlic and Shots, and the next thing I know I was here, at home again, lying fully clothed on my bed staring at the ceiling, suddenly wide awake and desperately thirsty. I can't remember what happened in between. It's blank. There is a glass of water by the bed. Thank God. It hurts like hell to move at all, but I force myself to lean up a little and to navigate the water to my mouth. My mouth and throat are dry, and I can feel the water running all the way down my gullet until it hits my stomach, which feels like a small oiled cannonball. I lie back, feeling dizzy and stupid and ashamed. Why did I need to go out and do that to myself? Why do I have no memory of what happened? Because that's what happens when you drink that much, a voice tells me. "Thanks," I tell the voice.