Get Into The Light: Chapter Twenty One- Things Couldn't Go More Wrong Right Now

The next morning I woke up hung-over yet happy. It didn’t matter that I’d failed at school, that my hair was unnaturally frizzy; my nose a crooked turnip because I knew that there was a place for people like me. All the encouraging stuff I’d read in self-help books was true- you just had to go out there, get over your fear and then you’d collect your reward. I was the lead singer in a Dutch dance band. I was going to be famous. The fact that I’d dropped out of school without any qualifications was irrelevant now.

Soon we’d appear on the Dutch Lottery Show and then we’d support Underworld and then get one our singles into the UK charts. It was important that I really enjoyed this time. I’d spent too much time doodling in black felt tip inside the inner cavity of my skull. Half-hearted ideas that never came to anything. There'd never been a proper focus. The TV always went on the minute, the objective became clear. But now I had the opportunity to apply myself. People slept with seedy old men to get this. People put all their life savings on this. And my parents no longer had to worry about my future being limited to a career in Homebase. Sure, I’d probably struggle with those typical artistic problems, like finding it hard to write lyrics whilst living in a lovely home with no bird shit. There were sure to be squabbles ahead, times when it was hard to get inspired about writing songs that sounded like a poor man’s 2Unlimited (no this wasn’t fair, we weren’t that bad but it was clear we weren’t going to change the world with our music- put it that way).But I’d had enough of slumming it - I wanted hot water and food that didn’t come out of a can or a take away bag. I wanted luxury bath products. A bed that didn't feel like you were lying on a lumpy, dead person.

I dropped two teabags in the pot and thought about all those people who would be frustrated and bitter about this triumphant turn of events. The teachers who’d thought I’d end up pregnant. The Head of 6th form who thought I’d fallen in with the devil when I left for Amsterdam (and perhaps for a while this had been true). The boys who had passed me over for someone less socially awkward and more conventionally pretty. Bob Van Veen. THere was another loser. Okay Zarzar were good but still not up to our standards- they were rolling with the stereotypes of dance music. We had a singer who couldn’t sing and a dancer who couldn’t dance. We had lyrics that were meaningful yet made no sense. The next natural step would be for them to retire from the Dutch dance scene. It would be nothing short of embarrassing for them to continue hawking their dance cliches around.

I fried an egg and plopped a slice of cheese on top. I thought about how much money I needed for my life to truly change. I wondered what a really soft pillow would feel like, one that didn’t smell like tobacco. I thought about smoking cigarettes without having to pass them through a rolling machine first. Then nice cheese that didn't need to have the mould cut off before you could plop a slice of it on your egg in the morning. Carl was still asleep. Would having more money make us a happier couple? Perhaps it was just the environment that was getting us down. There was too much bird shit everywhere, not enough light, the curtains were made of black polyester and really tipped you over the edge. Perhaps once we had a bigger, more comfortable pad, things would naturally work themselves out. But there was a sad little voice deep inside that said we'd turned a bit of a corner and feelings had changed (or at least mine had).

Carl woke up around midday- he seemed to need more sleep than me and I wondered whether this was because he was getting old. We drank coffee and talked about Bob Van Veen and how pointless he looked in his shorts. We talked about the people dancing to our music who weren’t even paid to dance. We talked about getting a small budget from Forest and using it to pay for proper stage outfits so we looked more professional. Later that afternoon we went to the supermarket and chose the most expensive ready meals and a bottle of nice wine. Later as the flat was getting dark (which seemed to happen anytime after 3pm most days) the phone rang. It was Pete.
‘Lynette’s in hospital.’
‘What?’
‘She’s in hospital.’
I gave Carl the phone. It didn’t make sense. We’d seen Lynette into a taxi the previous night. She’d been emotional but seemed to have recovered from the discovery of Miss Ellen and Pete’s relationship. In fact we’d even shared a couple of Jenever shots at the bar before she left the club. And it transpired she had been fine, she'd got home okay and gone to bed.

But this morning she'd been knocked off her bicycle on her way to Waterlooplein.

The hospital was on the outskirts of the city. It took us two tram rides to get there. I’d never realised Amsterdam was so big because I always moved in the same, tight circle from home to the studio or from home to a party in the centre of town. Pete was sitting in the downstairs waiting area. Everything was so clean – even the people sitting in the waiting room were really clean. It bore no resemblance to any English hospital. The police had called Pete because he was still written down as her next of kin in the notebook she used to draw stick figures wearing ridiculous glittery rucksacks on their backs. Lynette was a seasoned cyclist (not like I – not like the woman who had to get off and push every fifteen metres or whenever she saw a car) but she’d not seen the lorry turning into the side street and had been crushed against a wall. Before I’d heard this I’d expected a cartoon bump on the head, maybe a black eye. I pictured Lynette making a clean fall onto the pavement, swearing, picking bit of grit out of her palms and then feeling woozy and asking someone to call for help. But this wasn't true. It was absolutely not true at all. As we sat talking to Pete in the waiting room, Joost arrived. He’d heard from Forest who’d heard from Carl. But there was no room for awkwardness and we all clutched one another, hugged, tried to work out was happening. Only Pete had actually seen Lynette and it was clear from his expression that things were bad.

The fifth floor was the floor that housed all the quiet people. It was eerily still apart from the buzzing of machines and an intermittent sucking noise. Joost was pushing me forwards and all I was focused on was the back of Carl’s head. The door of Lynette’s room had a small enamelled sign with her name card- Miss Oosterkerk. Again this was nothing like any hospital I’d seen before but it wasn’t the right time to comment on the luxury and organisation right now.

Carl wanted me to go in there first. I thought about what a chicken he was - that he wanted me to experience this before him but then Lynette and I had become close (but if we were doing this on proximity then Joost should have been first as they’d actually slept together). But eventually Carl pushed me inside and we were standing in a bright room with a bed with a lump in the blankets and a variety of machines with blinking lights and this terrible slurping noise like someone sucking up milkshake through a straw. I reluctantly took Lynette’s hand. It felt cold and clammy. Her head was covered in bandages. The only movement the rise and fall of her chest as the air was forced into her lungs- it wasn't natural or normal- that was clear. Her eyelids were stuck shut with tape. Joost made a gasping noise and left the room. I looked for something on her face that looked familiar but there was nothing there. Carl came over to my side and squeezed my shoulders.
‘I’m going outside. I’m about to have a panic attack.’

I stayed with Lynette. For the first time in a long time I didn't think of myself. Ten minutes passed.

And perhaps it was the hangover from the night before but I found it hard to feel anything but anger towards Lynette. Why hadn’t she taken more care? She always refused to be tethered, to have an early night, to wear clothes that were appropriate. She talked about sex in a really vulgar way which made me uncomfortable. She was bright. Never called it a night. She was stupid. Very superficial. Competitive. She had ideas for costumes that did little to flatter anyone who was over eight stone. She danced like the women in the music videos without even trying.

‘How could this happen?’ I said squeezing her hand.
Her fingers were like wax- the colour wasn’t right. It wasn’t clear what they were doing in this clean hospital but they certainly weren’t working at bringing Lynette back to life. Was that even a possibility? I pinched one of her fingers until a small patch of skin went purple, then red. This would get a response. This would be the moment she sat up and started bawling about Miss Ellen. Nothing. There seemed to be quite a lot of hair missing on one side of her head and I thought about the hairstyles that we’d have to adopt in order to make her look normal again. I got my mouth right up to her ear. The sound of the breathing machine grew louder.
‘Lynette – what have you done?’
Nothing.
‘Lynette. We’re dance stars. We’ve finally made it!’
The air blew in and out of her chest at the same regular intervals. There was no flickering of eyelids like you see in the movies. The machines beeped. I thought about Hildegard and how she’d helped me get through some difficult shit. I willed her to swoop into the room and wake Lynette up. Nothing happened. The machines beeped some more. A nurse came in and checked everything and left.
'Are you planning on doing anything to help her?' I said but she didn't answer.
She was probably the one Dutch person in Amsterdam who didn't speak English. I didn't cry. For a moment I thought about Carl and his panic attack but soon that went too. The room was bright. The sucking sound, the beeping noise was everything. More time passed. Maybe it was twenty minutes now.
Joost popped his head round the door. I was just about to tell him to Fuck Off but his eyes were all red. I took one last look at Lynette and pushed past him and out into the corridor.