The Patrick Melrose Novels (26 page)

Patrick felt limitless dread. The rotten floorboards of his thoughts gave way one after another until the ground itself seemed no fitter than sodden paper to catch his fall. Maybe it would never stop. ‘I'm so tired, so tired,' he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, but immediately getting up again.

Mocking Echo: ‘I'm so tired, I'm so tired.'

Greta Garbo (screaming hysterically): ‘I don't want to be alone. I'm sick of being alone.'

Patrick slid down the wall. ‘I'm so fucking tired,' he wailed.

Mrs Mop: ‘You have a nice fix of coke, dear, perk yourself up a bit.'

Dr Death (taking out a syringe): ‘I have just the thing for you. We always use it in cases of bereavement.'

Cleopatra: ‘Oh, yes.' (Pouting girlishly.) ‘My bluest veins to kiss.'

Mrs Mop: ‘Go on, dear, do yourself a favour.'

Cleopatra (hoarsely): ‘Go on, you bastard, fuck me.'

This time Patrick had to use his tie. He wound it around his bicep several times and gripped it in his teeth, baring his gums like a snarling dog.

Gift o' the Gab O'Connor (draining a glass of Jameson): ‘She took to the leech with rowdy Saxon abandon crying, “I've always wanted to be in two places at once.”'

Courtier (excitedly): ‘A hit, a palpable hit.'

Captain Kirk: ‘Warp factor ten, Mr Sulu.'

Attila the Hun (basso profundo): ‘I play football with the heads of my enemies. I ride under triumphal arches, my horse's hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, the slaves of Rome strewing flowers in my path.'

Patrick fell off the chair and curled up on the floor. The brutality of the rush left him winded and amazed. He shook from the violence of his own heartbeat, like a man cowering under the spinning blades of a helicopter. His limbs were paralysed with tension and he imagined his veins, as thin and brittle as the stems of champagne glasses, snapping if he tried to unbend his arms. Without heroin he would die of a heart attack. ‘Just fuck off, the lot of you,' he murmured.

Honest John (shaking his head): ‘What a vicious bastard, eh, that Attila. Dear, oh dear. “Wot you staring at?” he said. “Nothing,” I said. “Well, don't fucking do it, all right?” he said.' (Shakes his head.) ‘Vicious!'

Nanny: ‘Nanny says if you don't stop talking in silly voices, the wind will change, and you won't be able to stop.'

Boy (desperately): ‘But I want to stop, Nanny.'

Nanny: ‘“I want” gets nowhere.'

Sergeant: ‘Get a grip on yourself, laddie.' (Screaming): ‘Quick march! Left, right. Left, right.'

Patrick's legs slid back and forth across the carpet, like a tipped-over wind-up doll.

Short notice in
The Times
' Death Column: ‘
MELROSE.
On 25 May, peacefully, after a happy day in the Pierre Hotel. Patrick, aged 22, loving son of David and Eleanor, will be sadly missed by Attila the Hun, Mrs Mop, Indignant Eric, and his many friends, too numerous to enumerate.'

Gift o' the Gab O'Connor: ‘A poor unfortunate soul. If he was not twitching like the severed leg of a galvanized frog, it was only because the mood lay heavy on him, like pennies on the eyelids of the dead.' (Drains a tumbler of Jameson.)

Nanny (older now, her memory no longer what it was): ‘I can't get used to it, he was such a lovely little boy. Always called him “my precious pet”, I remember. Always said, “Don't forget that Nanny loves you.”'

Gift o' the Gab O'Connor (tears rolling down his cheeks): ‘And his poor unfortunate arms fit to make a strong man weep. Covered in wounds they were, like the mouths of hungry goldfish crying out for the only thing that would purchase a little peace for his poor troubled heart.' (Drains a tumbler of Jameson.)

Captain Languid: ‘He was the sort of chap who stayed in his room a good deal. Nothing wrong with that, of course, except that he paced about the whole time. As I like to say, if one's going to be idle, one should be thoroughly idle.' (Smiles charmingly.)

Gift o' the Gab O'Connor (drinking straight from the bottle now, knee deep in tears, his speech grown more slurred): ‘And he was troubled in his mind also. Maybe it was the worry of the freedom killed him? In every situation – and he was always getting himself into situations – he saw the choices stretching out crazily, like the broken blood vessels of tired eyes. And with every action he heard the death cry of all the things he had not done. And he saw the chance to get the vertigo, even in a sky-catching puddle, or the gleaming of a drain on the corner of Little Britain Street. Maddened he was by the terror of forgetting and losing the trail of who he was, and turning in circles, like a foxy bloody foxhound in the middle of the bloody wood.'

Honest John: ‘What a prannit, eh? Never did an honest day's work in his life. When did you ever see him help an old lady across the road, or buy a bag of sweets for some deprived kiddies? Never. You gotta be honest.'

The Fat Man: ‘He was a man, sir, who did not eat enough, a man who picked at his food, who turned from the cornucopia to the pharmacopoeia of life. In short, sir, the worst kind of scoundrel.'

Gift o' the Gab O'Connor (occasionally surfacing above a lake of tears): ‘And the sight of him…' (glug, glug, glug) ‘… those torn lips that had never learned to love…' (glug, glug, glug) ‘… Those lips that had spoken wild and bitter words…' (glug, glug, glug) ‘… torn open by the fury of it, and the knowledge that death was upon him' (glug).

Debbie (stammering): ‘I wonder what I'm meant to say?'

Kay: ‘I saw him the day it happened.'

‘Let me not go mad,' shouted Patrick in a voice that started like his own, but became more like John Gielgud's with the last two words.

The Vicar (looking down soothingly from the pulpit): ‘Some of us remember David Melrose as a paedophile, an alcoholic, a liar, a rapist, a sadist, and a “thoroughly nasty piece of work”. But, you know, in a situation like that, what Christ asks us to say, and what he would have said himself in his own words is' (pausing) ‘“But that's not the whole story, is it?”'

Honest John: ‘Yes it is.'

The Vicar: ‘And that “whole story” idea is one of the most exciting things about Christianity. When we read a book by one of our favourite authors, be he Richard Bach or Peter Mayle, we don't just want to know that it's about a very special seagull, or that it's set in the lovely
campagne
, to use a French word, of Provence; we want the satisfaction of reading all the way to the end.'

Honest John: ‘Speak for yourself.'

The Vicar: ‘And in very much the same spirit, when we make judgements about other people (and which one of us doesn't?) we have to make sure that we have the “whole story” spread out before us.'

Attila the Hun (basso profundo): ‘Die, Christian dog!' (Decapitates the Vicar.)

Vicar's Severed Head (pausing thoughtfully): ‘You know, the other day, my young granddaughter came to me and said, “Grandfather, I
like
Christianity.” And I said to her (thoroughly puzzled), “Why?” And do you know what she said?'

Honest John: ‘Of course we don't, you prannit.'

Vicar's Severed Head: ‘She said, “Because it's such a comfort.”' (Pauses, and then more slowly and emphatically): ‘“Because it's such a comfort.”'

Patrick opened his eyes and uncurled slowly on the floor. The television stared at him accusingly. Perhaps it could save him or distract him from his own involuntary performance.

Television (snivelling and shivering): ‘Turn me on, man. Gimme a turn-on.'

Mr President: ‘Ask not what your television can do for you, but what you can do for your television.'

Ecstatic Populace: ‘Hooray! Hooray!'

Mr President: ‘We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship…'

Von Trapp Family Singers (ecstatically): ‘Climb every mountain!'

Mr President: ‘… support any friend, oppose any foe, to assure the survival and success of television.'

Ecstatic Populace: ‘Hooray! Hooray!'

Mr President: ‘Let the word go forth from this time and place, that the torch has passed to a new generation of Americans – born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage and unwilling to do anything except watch television.'

‘Yes, yes, yes,' thought Patrick, crawling across the floor, ‘television.'

Television (shifting restlessly from wheel to wheel): ‘Gimme a turn-on, man, I gotta have it.'

Viewer (coolly): ‘What you got for me?'

Television (ingratiatingly): ‘I got
The Million-Dollar Movie. The Billion-Dollar Man. The Trillion-Dollar Quiz Show.
'

Viewer: ‘Yeahyeahyeah, but wot you got
now
?'

Television (guiltily): ‘A still of the American flag, and some weirdo in a pale blue nylon suit talkin' about the end of the world.
The Farming Report
should be comin' up real soon.'

Viewer: ‘OK, I guess I'll take the flag. But don't push me' (getting out a revolver) ‘or I'll blow your fuckin' screen out.'

Television: ‘OK, man, just keep cool, OK? The reception isn't too great, but it's a
real
good shot of the flag. I personally guarantee that.'

Patrick switched off the television. When would this dreadful night come to an end? Clambering onto the bed, he collapsed, closed his eyes, and listened intently to the silence.

Ron Zak (his eyes closed, smiling benignly): ‘I want you to listen to that silence. Can you hear it?' (Pause.) ‘Become part of that silence. That silence is your inner voice.'

Honest John: ‘Oh, dear, it's not over yet, eh? Who's this Ron Zak, then? Sounds like a bit of a prannit, to be honest.'

Ron Zak: ‘Are you all one with that silence?'

Students: ‘We are one with the silence, Ron.'

Ron Zak: ‘Good.' (Long pause.) ‘Now I want you to use the visualization technique you learned last week to picture a pagoda – that's kind of a Chinese beach house, only in the hills.' (Pause.) ‘Good. It's very beautiful, isn't it?'

Students: ‘Gee, Ron, it's so neat.'

Ron Zak: ‘It's got a beautiful golden roof, and a network of bubbling round pools in the garden. Climb into one of those pools – mm, it feels good – and allow the gatekeepers to wash your body and bring you fresh new robes made of silk and other prestigious fabrics. They feel good, don't they?'

Students: ‘Oh, yes, they feel great.'

Ron Zak: ‘Good. Now I want you to go into the pagoda.' (Pause.) ‘There's somebody in there, isn't there?'

Students: ‘Yes, it is the Guide we learned about the week before last.'

Ron Zak (a little irritably): ‘No, the Guide is in another room.' (Pause.) ‘It's your mum and dad.'

Students (in startled recognition): ‘Mum? Dad?'

Ron Zak: ‘Now I want you to go over to your mum and say, “Mum, I really love you.”'

Students: ‘Mum, I really love you.'

Ron Zak: ‘Now I want you to embrace her.' (Pause.) ‘It feels good, doesn't it?'

Students (they scream, faint, write cheques, embrace each other, burst into tears, and punch pillows): ‘It feels so good!'

Ron Zak: ‘Now I want you to go over to Dad and say, “You, on the other hand, I cannot forgive.”'

Students: ‘You, on the other hand, I cannot forgive.'

Ron Zak: ‘Take out a revolver and shoot his fuckin' brains out. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.'

Students: ‘Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.'

Koenig Spook (terrible creaking of armour): ‘Omlet! Ich bin thine Popospook!'

‘Oh, for fuck's sake,' shouted Patrick, sitting up and slapping himself across the face, ‘stop thinking about it.'

Mocking Echo: ‘Stop thinking about it.'

Patrick sat down at the table and picked up the packet of coke. He tapped the packet and an unusually large rock fell into the spoon. Bringing a jet of water down on the cocaine, he heard a silvery ringing where it struck the side of the spoon. The powder flooded and dissolved.

His veins were beginning to shrink from the savage onslaught of the evening but one vein, lower down the forearm, still showed without encouragement. Thick and blue, it snaked its way towards his wrist. The skin was tougher there, and it hurt to break beneath it.

Nanny (singing dreamily to her veins): ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are!'

A thread of blood appeared in the barrel.

Cleopatra (gasping): ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.'

Attila the Hun (viciously, through clenched teeth): ‘No prisoners!'

Patrick fainted and sank back onto the floor, feeling as if his body had suddenly been filled with wet cement. There was silence as he looked down on his body from the ceiling.

Pierre: ‘Look at your body, man, it's fucking rubbish.
Tu as une conscience totale.
No
limites.
' (Patrick's body accelerates very rapidly. Space turns from blue to dark blue, and from dark blue to black. The clouds are like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Patrick looks down and sees, far below him, the window of his hotel room. Inside the room is a thin white beach surrounded by an intensely blue sea. On the beach children are burying Patrick's body in the sand. Only the head is showing. He thinks he can break the case of sand with a simple movement, but he realizes his mistake when one of the children empties a bucket of wet concrete in his face. He tries to wipe the concrete from his mouth and eyes, but his arms are trapped in a concrete tomb.)

‘Jennifer's Diary': ‘Patrick Melrose's graveside appeared to be unattended as the coffin was lowered, somewhat roughly, into the ground. However, all was not lost, and in the nick of time, that ever popular, gracious, enchanting, indefatigable couple, Mr and Mrs Chilly Willy, the Alphabet City junkies, on a rare visit uptown, shuffled attractively onto the scene. “Don't sink him, don't sink him, he's my man,” cried the inconsolable Chilly Willy. “Where I gonna git a dime bag now?” he wailed. “Did he leave me anything in his will?” asked his grief-stricken wife, who wore a cleverly designed, affordable dress in a superbly colourful floral fabric. Among those who did not attend, claiming that they had never heard of the deceased, were Sir Veridian Gravalaux-Gravalax, Marshal of the Island Kennels, and his cousin the very attractive Miss Rowena Keats-Shelley.'