The 4.30pm London to Berkamhead, Return (Chapter Two: Insomnia)

London 1996

My first major decision when I got back to Miria’s was whether to have a line or a spliff. I chose a line. I had been crashing at Miria’s flat, with her more than ample settee as a makeshift bed, for the past few weeks. She would be glad to get rid of me I was sure, but had kindly agreed a few more weeks since the flat had fallen through. She was a true friend, perhaps my only real friend. I mean, I’ve got friends, acquaintances, colleagues, fellow liggers, fuck buddies, people who want to fuck me, but no one apart from Miria who I could really trust.

Miria, an Afghan national, either slept or worked, but was always with me in spirit. I didn’t know that much more about her, except that she had come to London in search of a perceived wealth, some additional security. Now she was working in one of Soho’s finest strip clubs.

I cut myself out another line, all too aware as I felt those beautiful drops in the back of my throat that I didn’t want to peak too early. A new club had sprung up just round the corner, the ‘Migration’ or some such randomly chosen, but supposedly suggestive title. I’d given it a month or so to establish itself (there’s nothing worse than going to an empty club by yourself) and had heard that Friday night’s ‘Opium’ gig was starting to cause a bit of a stir. Even the ‘pussy in boots’ glamour babes at work, of which, being a hairdressing company, there were many, had been gossiping about it in the ladies lavs at lunchtime… my line of coke light lunch.

So it was time I checked it out for myself, if I could just find something to wear. It’s so bloody difficult living out of a suitcase, the clean stuff was always creased and vice versa. It’s impossible to carry out the things you actually need and, fuck me, it’s always a mess. I really needed my own place.

Well you fucked that up didn’t you Juliet

I took another line. After a bit of indecision, I grabbed a purple (what seemed purple under this dim lounge light at least) strappy thing, which didn’t look or smell that bad and wriggled myself into it. A little short I suppose, but it might get me some looks. Time was getting on and I hadn’t done my make up. Now you can probably tell, I’m not one of those ‘chose a dress at lunchtime, was drinking Lambrusco at 5, chatting with my girly friends and getting to the club by 9’ types. But over the past few years, more so since moving to London, my makeup tends to take a little longer than it used to. Standing in front of Miria’s fake sixteenth century vanity unit, which was littered with twenty first century products, I could see that my flame of eternal youth had blown out a long time ago. My diet of pills, coke and vodkas, combined with the London air, had done nothing for my skin which seemed pale in comparison to a few years back.

And then there’s my nose. Anyone who has used coke over a sustained period will know what I mean, the burning sores giving you an all year round red nosed reindeer look. Combined with the two fading scars under my left eye, means the face presented in the morning to anyone lucky enough to have been pleasuring me the night before is just a little horrific. I’ve concluded that the coke look is increasingly becoming the New Romantic look of the 90s, so was proud to be one of the ‘in-crowd’. By the time I hit the club though, I’ll be as smoking as ever, I’m expert at covering it all up. Perhaps just one more line before I go.

……………

Thankfully I was pretty certain that I had made the VIP list for ‘Opium’, which was handy given the queue was stretching round the corner when I finally got there. There’s nothing worse than standing out in the cold with all the grinners, gurners, freaks and fools. Tonight I could walk on by, get away with a quick frisk and get down to getting down.
“Where do you think you’re going?”, the largest of the two bouncers said, catching me mid step.
“I’m on the list”
“Name?”
“Cardean, Juliet. Do you want my vital statistics too?”, I was feeling pedantic.
He looked at his clipboard and muttered something under his breath, perhaps because he could see a professional net worker (ligger!!) written all over my smile.
“Juliet, how you going? Keeping well? Let her in, she’s OK”. The second bouncer seemed familiar, I couldn’t place, but he seemed to know me.
“Fine, good, you? Looking fit and well. Listen, I’d love to stand out in the cold all night continuing this all too obvious and quite frankly, predictable chat, but I really need to get out of my tree pronto!” I barged past bouncer one and started up the stairs, my witty comebacks and drug cocktail pumping the adrenaline up through my veins. I heard bouncer one ask who I was, bouncer two describing me as a ‘character’. A charming description considering what he could have said, even if he didn’t follow it up with, “I’d give her one”.

Then it clicked, he’d fucked me for a couple of grams of coke and fifty quid. Was he really that considerate not to boast about having sex with me? Or was I that bad?

The atmosphere was hot, sweaty and intense inside. The Dj’s tunes had already pulled the punters into a rhythmic stasis. They peaked together, they fell together, people pushed and shoved and hugged and loved. I went straight to the lavs and cut my remainder out into four healthy lines. I needed to be in there, I needed to be part of that.

In minutes it was midnight, then one, two o’clock in the morning. I had been dancing with some guy called Matt, who had taken an instant shine to me, telling me that he had loved what I had done, that he had found it funny. I had no idea what he was on about, but smiled none the less. At five the power cut. There was a stand still.

A brief crackle was followed by the loudest electronic gunshot that seemed to all put rattle the walls of the club. I grinned wildly, ‘Insomnia’, the story of my life. As the beat bombarded us, I threw myself into one of my crazier dance moves.

The DJ is looking, do it for him

Was he looking at me? It was difficult to tell, the lights and drugs creating all manner of illusions, altering my perceptions of the surroundings. No, he was looking and he was beautiful. Thin, cropped hair, perfect body, all tensed muscles. I had to meet him. I turned to Matt. He knew he was on the promise of ‘no sleep’ with me; I needed to know just how far I could push his ‘love’.
“I gotta meet the DJ”
“What?”
“I gotta meet him; I need to talk to him”
“That’s alright, I’ll introduce you, come on”
“What?”, now I was confused.
“Yeah I know him, an old mate of mine, went to Uni together and stuff”. Matt took me by the hand and led me towards the booth. This could be the beginning of something big. And if they were really good mates, then there would be no problem sharing would there? Sharing me. Yeah, if they played it right, they could both be on for a good night, providing they had some coke of course.