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FOR ELLIE

O

NE

Maybe it was the durian.

The durian that smelt like a septic tank when the little guy with the stained wifebeater and one tooth hacked it open with a cleaver.

Some people think it’s the best smell in the world, you know that?

Me? My guts were revolting before I even put the thing in my mouth.

It slips up and out, easy as anything. With every strobe that slices the dark, I see it lit up on the front of my shirt.

For true, looks like a Jackson Pollock.

No one has noticed, though.

Nope. They’re just pulsing in the rainbow lights.

Human stop-motion.

Dancing in their awkward Asian way.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

A four-four bass drum punches my speedbag heart.

Maybe it was the booze. No, one hundred percent it was the booze. A bucket’s worth of Kaoliang, beer and whisky sloshing around my insides along with the fruit and my dinner.

Here comes another wave.

Oh look, I’ve made the floor all slippy, and now I’m on my arse.

A jungle of bare legs in stilettos stomps, rises, falls. Legs in trousers too, but who gives a shit about those, eh? A flash of lacy underwear under a tight skirt and…

Nothing.

I feel nothing. Which, come to think of it, isn’t so bad.

Have a drink, Sean, let go, lose control for once. That’s what you always say.

I bet you never thought you’d be able to get me hammered like this – like those idiots at the A&E in Euston that one Saturday night.

Remember?

Your face swelled up like a balloon that night, and man did we laugh about it.

Congrats, Mia. I’m doing what you wanted.

I’m living my life, on the floor, covered in my own bile.

I hope you’re fucking happy.

I wake up, alone.

The TV is on at low volume. My tongue is a fat, dried slug and a million tiny devils are busting into my skull with teeny-weeny hammers and teeny-weeny chisels.

I open my eyes and push myself upright.

Dull light through closed curtains.

I look down. Naked from the waist up.

Why are my trousers damp? I smell old sweat and the vinegar reek of sick.

My phone says 9:48 am.

I close my eyes and I lie back down and I remember where I am.

Shit, breakfast.

I grab my T-shirt from the floor and run out the room.

Weird tasting tea.

Congealed eggs, rubbery sausages, shrivelled tomatoes and soggy toast.

Classic, budget hotel breakfast. The kind of hotel businessmen check into for somewhere cheap and clean.

I don’t remember getting back here last night. I do remember going to a club. What was the name?

Continuum.

A wanky name for a swanky place you would never catch me at in London.

No playing, there’s nothing that says ‘sad bastard’ more than going to a club on your own.