It was Daymo’s fault. Daymo was shit crack at the best of time and a mardy, simpleminded cunt the rest. But he was minted, and he had this place out near Penrith, a dingy cottage which was an inheritance from some relative who clearly didn’t like him. Place had an open fire, stone floors, no electricity or running water and no one around for miles. In short, the perfect place to trip your balls off.
Yeah, right.
An hour in, Fat Murray felt the melt, but Daymo was giving us the usual shit: “Can’t feel nowt. You got ripped off. Telling you, it’s that shitehawk Francis. He’s got it in for us, just ‘cause I bummed his hoor of a missus.”
“Murray’s alright.”
“Murray’s a fuckin’ lightweight.” Then he started talking about Francis again, and Francis’ filthy lass. Halfway through a sentence, there was a giggle that told us the dose had kicked in. “Hey. Hey. You know what we should do. We should get the Playstation out. Get my fuckin’ Micro Machines on.”
Like he was from the streets when his mam and dad lived up Woolsington and had a heated pool.
“No leccy, Daymo.”
“Get it on. Nyerrrrr-nyeeeeeeeeeeeerrrr.”
I picked the spliff from the ashtray. Daymo droned on. The fire spat and crackled in the grate. I gave it another five and then dropped.
Staggering the doses was Fat Murray’s idea, as was keeping a carton of orange juice in the cooler. He reckoned vitamin C and sugar was a quick and easy remedy in case someone got the fear, and Fat Murray was a trainee nurse, so he obviously knew his stuff. Me, I found a thick spliff just as effective.
Relaxation was the gateway.
Fat Murray made a noise like an angry cat. He shook in his chair, his face pink and slick. Textbook bad dose. I got out of my chair and went to the cooler. Nothing in there but beer. “Daymo, where’s the orange juice?”
I heard him giggle, the twat. Cheapskate fuckin’ tight-arse shit. Oh yeah, he was happy to shell out for unstable blotter – remembering now the look on Francis’ shiny smiling face when he sold it to us, like he wanted to burst out laughing – but he was fucked if he’d spend a quid on a carton of Aldi OJ.
Daymo was serious now. “Pineapple rings.”
“You what?”
He waved a hand at the kitchen area. I went to the cupboard, found a tin of Tesco Value pineapple rings in juice. Before I got a chance to pop it, Daymo snatched it out of my hands. “Give it here. I’ll do it.”
I watched him approach Fat Murray. I sat down and retrieved the spliff. My skin felt weird. I rubbed my face. Daymo muttered something to Fat Murray, sounded like he was trying to calm him down.
And then I heard Fat Murray choke. And when I turned I saw the concentrated expression on Daymo’s face.
“Fuck you doing?” I shoved Daymo out of the way, heard the tin clatter and roll, juice spraying us. Fat Murray’s eyes had rolled to the back, his mouth was open, and I could see the curve of a pineapple ring bent up against the back of his throat. “You’re just supposed to use the juice, you daft prick.”
Shaking his head. “You don’t get it. He’s not right.”
“You’re not fuckin’ right. It’s just a bad dose.”
“It’s him.”
He lunged for Fat Murray. I got in his way. His face shifted, rippled. I knew it was just the flicker of firelight, but I couldn’t hold the thought. Something primal screeched in the back of my head.
Daymo snarled. I shoved him away. He slipped on the wet stone and something cracked when he landed. I didn’t breathe. Then I saw the blood pool behind his head.
Fuck.
Looked at Fat Murray. He was limp and motionless.
Fuck.
I sat down. Couldn’t hold the spliff for shaking. A bad dose coming and two bodies in the room. My hands were sticky. I watched the cracks in the floor open into canyons.
It was going to be a long fuckin’ night.
~ fin ~
Ray Banks shares his birthday with Curtis Mayfield and Chuck Barris and was born in Kirkcaldy, Fife, the same day Roberto Rossellini kicked the bucket, and four days before The Sex Pistols went on that jaunt up the Thames. He has worked as a wedding singer, double-glazing salesman, croupier, dole monkey, and various degrees of disgruntled temp.
He currently lives in Edinburgh, Scotland and online at www.thesaturdayboy.com.
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