19. Somewhere in Between...

Thursday 29th December 2005

Where have the last three days gone?

I don't remember doing anything. Perhaps because ' apart from sleep, stare at the ceiling and munch chocolates and Doritos ' I didn't do anything. All I remember, since Christmas Day, are four long periods of darkness and three short periods of light. There was some snow in there, too. And a few blinding headaches. And the most intense wake-time downers I've experienced in a while. That old black dog shuffled its ragged-arsed carcass in again on Boxing Day morning, clambered onto my back and has been breathing down my neck ever since.

It's my fault, of course. Too much booze, too little sleep. And then there was that other little matter of Sherlock's premium-grade blow¦

.

Shame, really, because Xmas Day had been pretty good. I'd surfaced late ' just after eleven ' and only then thanks to Beth and Daz. Their new bed, as I'd observed when it was delivered, was one of those things that looks like it's made out of bent scaffolding poles. They'd obviously put it too close to the radiator pipes. I awoke to the sound of a thrash-metal cover of Tubular Bells.

It was too late for breakfast, so I got straight in with the dinner.

Nut roast. Roast parsnips. Sprouts. Mashed spuds. Mashed swede. Peas. Carrots. Broccoli. Half a pint of Bisto gravy. Cranberry Sauce. A glass of AOC Cab Sauv from The Bean Bag. I can do the business when I try.

"Pull a cracker, Al?

"Don't mind if I do, Al, me old mate.

Snap!

Right hand wins this year.

Pink crown ' too small.

A fortune-telling fish that curls up and dies. Hm.

Joke:
What do you call a fly without wings?
A walk.

Nice fruity little pudding from the Co-op. Glass of whisky over the top. Flaming up like a gas burner. Drop of custard.

Lovely.

Sod the washing-up. Brandy and a cigar.

Hmmm¦

A tinkle at the window. A cable-car message from the man himself.

Are you coming over or what?
S
PS got some AK-47

The bastard! Where did he get that from? Who gave him the money?

Who the fuck cares?

I put all my Christmas presents in one carrier bag. I put all my booze in another.

I only needed asking once.

.

He welcomed me into his sub-tropical den with a glass of mulled rum, which got things going nicely. We sat for a bit with our drinks and cigars, letting it settle in, watching our smoke drift through the foliage. I should explain: Sherlock has a plant mania. Apart from a few pots of the obvious variety ' just this side of 'supply' ' every shelf, table and sideboard top in his place is jungled with greenery: African violets, poinsettias, tradescantias, coleuses, gloxinias, crocuses, maiden's-hair ferns, azaleas¦ plus species I think no one's ever seen before: the accidental result of cross-pollination or something. Spider plants trail their baskets down the walls from hangers on the picture rails. Rubber plants, Swiss cheeses and ornamental bamboos sprout and spiral from every corner. It's like sitting in a park. He keeps them, he says, because they help to absorb the impurities out of the air, like trees do with carbon dioxide. I suspect it might be something to do with the company, too. Everyone has their own thing. With me, it's pot-boilers. With Sherlock, shrubbery.

Anyway, suitably primed, we got down to our presents. Sherlock was more than chuffed with the vodka and Doc I got him, plus some Zig Zags and a Zippo.

"I've got a good use for them later, he said, riffling the packets.

"So I gather, I said. "I won't ask how you got it.

"Then I won't tell.

I opened my present from him.

A £2.99 bottle of Chekov vodka and a can of Dr Pepper.

"How did you guess, mate?

"Easy. Knowing how similar our tastes are, I just thought about what you'd probably get for me.

He reached over and hooked me up another parcel from the pile beside a tinsel-clad aspidastra.

"Just a little extra. Christmas tree gift.

I opened it up. Two king-size Mars bars. I felt ashamed.

"I didn't think of that. Sorry, mate.

"That's okay, he said. "I knew you wouldn't. Only one of them's for you. The other's the one you'll give me to assuage your guilt.

He might not be able to remember where his bike is, but he's spot on with the finer details.

.

So we sat there that afternoon, supping our Skid Row's, going through the other gifts we'd gotten. More baccy, cigars, cans, bottles ' not all of them after-shave. We wondered if our friends were trying to tell us something.

Sherlock's Secret Santa from the pub was a mouse mat. He'd have looked less bemused if it had been a pedicure set.

"But I ain't even got a mouse.

I wasn't so sure of the truth of this in animal terms. His corners looked distinctly rodent-ish to me. Monkeyfied, too. But as far as the electronic variety was concerned, he was right. He'd never up-graded his Amstrad word-processor, which he'd bought second-hand twelve years ago when he was a part-time student. He asked me one day how to get it to connect to the Internet. He's not really a technology man.

"Was it you? he said. "Is this some kind of hint?

"Definitely not, mate. Lemon was mine.

He chuckled. "Oh yeah. I bet that was a challenge. What did you get him?

"A couple of scratch cards, I said ' and immediately felt another wave of shame crash through me.

Sherlock laughed so much he nearly toppled his chair into a thicket.

"I know, I said. "And after what he did last night, too. It's a bit of a piss-take.

"Don't fret, mate. If I know him, he'll see the funny side.

"I bloody well hope so.

I took a slurp and opened my Secret Santa.

It was a brown calfskin wallet.

My initials were etched in one corner in gold script.

Inside it were five crisp new twenties.

"Jesus! Somebody loves you, matey.

I fingered the notes, completely stupefied. I could feel tears coming.

Sherlock rubbed his chin. "I don't think I'd have too much trouble figuring who that's from.

I couldn't believe it. I simply couldn't believe it. Money does such strange things.

"But I only got him a couple of poxy scratch cards.

Bless his new silk socks.

Bless his everything.

.

After that, we both needed something. Sherlock went to the kitchen and came back with an ancient Quality Street tin ' the 'special' one with all the equipment inside: the grinders, razor blades, folding scissors, mats, roach clips, rolling machines, bongs. A true dope-head's Black and Decker set. And right in there amongst it all¦ a little bubble-bag of pure brown gold-dust.

We cracked open a can each and then he set about constructing the most heroic spliff I'd ever seen. At least six rollies-worth of Golden Virginia, liberally spiced, and all held together in what seemed like half a packet of skins ' flicked, licked and twisted with the dexterity of a master of his art. If he'd gone in for Origami, he could have won the World Championships one-handed.

"You've heard of the Camberwell Carrot. Well, this is the Cacksea Cucumber. Now¦ are you ready for this?

I thought I was. And for ten minutes, I was right. It was like having someone drag a filter through your body which caught up all the aches, pains and anxieties, pulled them out and dispersed them into space. There was no need for us to speak. We just sat there, passing the number back and forth, staring out of the window at the sky above the rooftops, blissed as two pups in a puddle. A plane flew over, trailing candy floss, and we were right there with it¦ above the clouds¦ light as the breeze¦ flying far, far away¦

And then I hit turbulence. Big time. The ground rushed up like a train. I don't remember a great deal. Just that the world suddenly seemed to lose dimension. A dozen flash-bulbs went off at once¦

¦and then Sherlock was looking down at me anxiously, dabbing my forehead with a flannel. I was lying on his sofa. That filter had gone back through me and put all the crap back again, with a bit extra for good measure. Most of it seemed to be in my head.

Sherlock's face relaxed slightly.

"Christ, mate. You had me worried there for a bit.

I tried to sit up, but my head was too heavy.

"Wha¦?

"You pulled a whitey, mate. First one I've seen for years. If you'd gone any paler, you'd have looked like a snowman.

.

I still don't know how I managed to get back. I know Sherlock was there, though, holding me up. Then Yoyo was, too, for a bit.

Stairs, stairs, stairs¦ so many fuckin' stairs¦

¦then I was in my armchair, drinking coffee which was nine-parts sugar. Sherlock had made it. He made me another. He gave me my Mars Bar. Then he gave me his.

"You can owe it to me, he said.

He sat there while I ate it. Then, when he could see I was okay, he got up and went to the door.

"You know where I am, mate. Take your time.

Then he was gone. Good man. Like all the best mates, he knew when to leave. He knew when you needed time alone.

So I went and crashed on the bed. I felt uncomfortable at first ' something was digging into my back. I fished around and pulled Lemon's present out of my pocket.

My initials, in gold lettering.

Five crisp twenties.

Why did I deserve that?

.

And now¦

¦Thursday lunchtime.

My fourth day of self-imposed exile. The dog's still there, but the stench of it's breath doesn't seem so bad. My head and heart and stomach, though, feel as empty as my fridge.

There's a tinkle at the window. Sherlock's on the tin-pan telegraph:

How you feeling?
Hungry?
Just got a Chinese in.
Like my spliff, can't
handle it alone.
Door's open.
S

PS just heard ' Lemon won
a ton with a scratch card
someone gave him.
Money and money, eh?

Where's my shoes?