The Overly Dramatic

Medicinal

All those terrible dreams last night, like jumbo jets stacked waiting to crash, one after the other, relentless. He could still see those fuckers now, long arms shovel like at the elbow, faces like smashed in fruit, mouths like fucked broken zips screaming at him for help. Fuck you get in the queue. Each night brought more horrible slop, the creaking rudderless dredger would go floating across the waters of his subconscious and delivering unto him some warped twisted truth about the way he had lived his life. He had a foreboding sense that he was fucked, something awful was about to happen, oh fucking yes, disease or sudden death were the primary candidates closely followed by a knifing or a twatting by some deranged berk that he’d just bought a drink..

He got out of bed and went to the bathroom, had a piss and then looked in the mirror for some sort  encouragement but he saw none. Still the bloated drinker’s eyes, the jaw sinking into the neck. The pallor of his skin didn’t look too good either, orange, as if he’d been away on the continent for a fortnight, maybe his liver was finally on the turn. No chance of getting a girlfriend looking like this. He picked up his razor, looked at the grease on the blade and put it back down again. Women, they were just something he saw on TV and queued behind at the bus stop. He shook his head, turning quickly away from the mirror, there was a noise coming from downstairs, he tiptoed onto the landing and stood there, head cocked listening intently, the sound of a man coughing, and then, then he remembered.

Roy stood at the back door, smoking, watching Malcom attempting to slice some bread with a table knife, the force squashing the bread almost flat. Why had Malcom come last night, armed with a crate of beer when he knew very well that it was the first day of Roy’s detox. Yesterday had started so well, he’d been talking to people in the newsagent, neighbours that he usually ignored, telling them how wonderful and refreshing herbal tea is in the morning, much better than that brown sludge most folk drink nowadays. They’d just looked and nodded. Unlike many days, most of them unmemorable, ending with him twatted, face down in the carpet. This was no life for someone like him, no life for anyone at all, ‘it just wont do’ he said to himself as he wandered over to the fridge to get the milk, a sense of injustice and hurt suddenly welling up inside of him as he opened the fridge door and went to pick up the milk, muttering obscenities to the whole human race when he spied the four pack of Export. He stared at them, he could see his reflection in the cans, sort of made his face look thinner and less orange, just have one he thought ripping a couple from the pack.

‘You be wanting a beer Malcom?’

‘I’ve got one thanks, came the reply, away at the sink was Malcom, scratching the black off the toast.

‘Why does toast always burn’ said  Roy, ‘it does that with me.’

‘It’s not toast that burns Roy, It’s bread that burns in the process of being toasted’.

‘It fucking looks like toast to me’ said Roy, the can tilted in his hand as he put a fag to his mouth and lit it, puffed on it and then started jabbing it towards Malcom.

‘And I’ll tell you what, if you’re gonna start getting funny you can go and get funny in some fucker else’s house.’

‘Oh calm down Roy,  I’m only being pedantic.’ I’ll fucking pedank you one in a minute thought Roy.  He poured the dregs of the can down his throat, ripped open the one he’d got for Malcom and started pouring that one down his throat, suddenly realising that there wasn’t much booze in the house, it was only just gone nine and a dilemma was approaching. If he hit the vodka past midday he’d turn into a teddy bear, if he took on the whiskey things  might go a little dark. The trouble was, there was very little vodka.

Malcom was digging into the butter with his knife, spreading it thickly onto his toast, Roy watched him wondering about the booze dilemma looming, maybe Malcom, after eating all his supplies would be gracious enough to nip out for more beer.

‘The detox not going too well then Roy?’ said Malcom waspishly as he  wiped a few crumbs away from his lips. Roy shrugged it off.

‘It was until you turned up last night.’

‘But I’m your only friend Roy, I have to keep popping in to see how you are.’ Malcom smiled,  wiping butter from his chin with the back of his hand and then going on to lick the ends of his fingers. Roy decided not to rise to the bait. It wasn’t worth it, he knew Malcom’s game, get Roy off on a rant so he doesn’t drink so much which meant that there would be more left for him. Roy shrugged and carried on with his drinking. Malcom had started waffling on about local architecture anyway as he often did when he felt the need to establish some kind of authority over Roy. Roy let the words float through his head, they meant nothing at the moment, the only thing that concerned him was getting topped off with booze, without more booze or the knowledge of more booze, his head was like a trifle without the double whipped cream.

‘Did I mention last night that Deidre has asked me to move in with her?’ Roy smiled briefly, his eyes beginning to glaze a little. Malcom pushed away the plate of crumbs and burped, his hand momentarily across his chest, pausing.

‘She said a man of your intellect and conversational wit shouldn’t live alone,’ he rolled his eyes to the side, adjusting himself in the chair.

‘But do you know what, I think she might be right. And she’s better than having the heating on all night. What do you think to that Roy?’

‘Do it’ replied Roy, thinking that if it stopped him coming round on the scrounge that was no bad thing.

‘Of course it would mean I wouldn’t be able to call on a whim’ said Malcom, eyebrows arched.

‘Well,’ said Roy, pausing to roll a cigarette, ‘You’re always welcome, you know that.’ It was said without thinking, for Roy suddenly realised that Deirdre Norton lived in the next town and Malcom didn’t do anything but walk. He would miss him.

‘We should have a drink to celebrate’ said Roy, his voice slightly strained at the suggestion.

‘Yes, yes of course,’ said Malcom.

‘It’s the cheapest one they do’ said Roy filling up the glasses, he handed one to Malcom and they bid each other good health.

‘My’ said Malcom, ‘it’s certainly got an edge.’

Roy nodded as he lit up another smoke, the clock on the wall steadily ticking by as they drank and talked of old times that were sometimes good and sometimes fucking wank, like old friends do, making light of discrepancies of character, deals of misfortune and the like but then Malcom started talking about Deidre, sort of everything started coming back round to Deidre and her warm bed and fluffy pillows and her midnight tarot card readings and sherry which, according to Malcom, forecast great joy and happiness as long as he abandoned his old ways, the old ways almost slipping apologetically out of his mouth. Malcom looked at Roy rather sheepishly, trying to gauge how far Roy would lose his temper, he was glaring at Malcom.

‘You mean me don’t you? I’m of the old way aren’t I not?’ he said quietly.

Malcom composed himself, got up and put an arm around him,

‘It’s not you Roy, it’s me. I need someone like her, my ways are trouble to my own heart and nothing to do with you, in fact Deidre speaks highly of you, she suggests dinner sometime?’

‘Now you are lying. I’ve seen her face whenever I’m around, it’s like a balloon going down over a  flame, she doesn’t like me. You know that, the world knows what I am.’ Malcom nodded, which made Roy want to twat him, he wasn’t supposed to agree.

Suddenly Malcolm had him by both elbows,

‘Calm down Roy, nice big deep breaths.’

Roy stared into Malcom’s eyes, it amazed him that Malcom never really looked pissed, there was an intensity there, a steady intelligence that was comforting to him, and now he was going to Deidre and would never see him and he would be left to drift in the sea of piss. Roy felt tears coming down his face, everything was blurry and smudged, Malcom was talking to him,

‘Listen, listen Roy, I’ve got something for you.’

‘I don’t want your watch Malcom. I know what it means to you.’  Malcom sighed and looked around the room in exasperation.

‘Who says I’m giving you my watch?’

Roy wiped his face with both hands and went over to the worktop, drunk and unsteady, nearly tripping over a small pink plastic box, suitcase shaped with a yellow handle. Roy stared at it, kicked it with his foot.

‘What’s that?’

Malcom walked over and picked it up, brushed a little dirt off the top of it and said that it was his, Deidre gave it to him.

‘What the fuck is in there? What is it, a fucking lego set?’

Roy was now slurring and wonky eyed. Malcom remained silent as he took it over to the table and flipped it open. Roy moved over with him and stared down at it.

‘It’s a magic axe’ said Malcom. ‘It can do evil and it can undo evil’.

Roy stared at the blue and silver plastic axe.

‘Malcom, I might be pissed but this is not a day you should start fucking with my mind, please.’

Malcom looked at Roy, his eyes were bright and determined.

‘I’m not fucking with you Roy, I’ve used it myself and believe me, it works. Lets just say that if I was to chop my toe off then this thing would be able to chop it back on again.’

Roy looked at him incredulously, silence hung in the air for a few moments, Roy trying hard to fathom out what Malcom was trying to say. After a few moments Roy asked if chopping your toe off constituted an evil act.

‘Probably not’ conceded Malcom, ‘And chopping it back on again is probably not very good grammar but believe me, it works, I myself used it only yesterday, and if you feel the need to undo some evil today, you can borrow it if you like.’

Roy looked a little dazed, that whiskey was fucking with his head, a plastic axe, magic even, what he could do with that.

‘I’ll give it a go,’ he replied.

Malcom left soon after and Roy felt abandoned. He was a crisp packet, the wind decided where he went. Much later, he took  a bath. Loaded it up with Mr Men bubble bath and lay in it for a good hour, contemplating a life without Malcom and evil. What evil he had done and what evil he could undo. A lot of things cropped up in his mind, like a recently ploughed brain field that Roy went picking over, women’s knickers that had once been blowing in the sunshine now used to wash the dishes, a cat tickled to death  with a tin opener, a two line letter to his dying mother asking for more money, a photograph of someone he used to like with shit head scrawled across it in brown felt tip, all kinds of toss he ploughed over until he felt cold and spent, shivering amongst the disintegrating bubbles. He snorted violently and pushed himself out the bath.

Medicine

A short while later after completely cleaning out the house of alcohol, Roy was walking down the street to the doctors appointment that he had booked over the phone, a copy of the morning paper in one hand and the axe, the magic axe stuffed down his jeans.

Inside the doctor’s surgery Roy had to wait a good half hour so he read the daily news. War and adverts for tits on every page, only one story about God and that was rubbish.

Easy, measured and refined was the first impression that Roy took from the doctor. Unlike himself who felt jittery and nauseous, even having trouble folding the paper as he entered.

‘Morning’ said the doctor brightly ‘anything in the paper?’

Roy shook his head, he really didn’t feel much like making light conversation, a paradox given the news. ‘Well then Mr Worklington, what appears to be the problem?’ Roy stood there, staring down at the back of his claw-like hands, his tarnished fingers, thinking of all the ancestors before him who had struggled in muck and corn just to have him here to present himself.

‘I don’t feel very well Doctor.’

Roy heard the doctors chair squeak. ‘Anything specific or just a little run down?’

Roy stared at the doctor blankly for a moment before answering. It wasn’t anything in particular, it was everything. It was misery. General misery. The only state of mind that doesn’t reflect. Like a black hole, indeed. Everything, remarkable or otherwise, falling into it. So Roy told him that he thought he needed a brain sieve. The doctor leaned forward over his desk slightly, coughed and then clasped his hands together.

‘What exactly is a brain sieve Mr Worklington?’

‘A brain sieve is when you chop some fucker’s head off, take out the brain and put it in a colander under some cool clean water and rinse all the shit off it and then put the brain back and chop the fucking head back on. You can do that can’t you doctor?’

‘I have never heard such rambunctious nonsense in all my born days.’ The doctor sniffed, eyeing Roy warily as he blew his nose hard, looked at the contents of the hanky and then replaced it in the top pocket of his sports jacket.

Roy stared hard at the doctor, what a funny little man he was, no real features of distinction, the kind of face that suffered little because anyone dishing out the retribution couldn’t remember what he looked like, unremarkable, he reminded Roy of a bookshelf he’d once seen that had row upon row of Readers Digest hardback books. Roy shook his head at the interruption of a funny white noise that had just began funneling around his head, like the sound of a kettle somewhere in the distance was in his head. A  tiny fuzzy black spot hovered around in front of his eyes. Roy unzipped his jeans and pulled out the axe. He brandished it wildly.

‘I have on good account that this here axe will do evil and undo evil. Are you a believer doctor in this wonderful thing, tell me that you are doctor, tell me that you believe?’

‘No, Mr Worklington, I don’t believe and if you don’t mind…’

‘You’d better start fucking believing in something doctor, because you are going to chop my head off, brain sieve all the poo and muck from it and then chop my head back on.’

‘No’ said the doctor firmly, his little finger creeping along the desk towards the intercom button. But Roy noticed it and brought the axe down, the plastic axe, sharply on the desk, knocking over a snowstorm of Bognor Regis in the process. The doctor eyed him keenly.

‘You’re a fool man, put it down this instant!’

At that Roy lifted the axe from the desk and pulled it up until it was level with his chin, momentarily a samurai warrior, before shifting it back into one hand and hooking it into the top of his jeans. He bent down and began scribbling furiously on a scrap of paper which happened to be on the desk.

‘What are you doing’ asked the doctor nervously.

‘Suicide note’ replied Roy breathlessly, ‘just in case the axe doesn’t work. By the way. I have your wife and child hostage. If you don’t do what I want, then someone expecting to see me in an hour, might act upon the precise instructions I gave regarding their disposal.’

‘That’s bollocks’ said the Doctor, his face of Readers Digest books suddenly flapping wildly open to reveal turgid stories of almost epic dullness all about absolutely nothing, ‘They’re in Norfolk’ he exclaimed.

‘I know’ replied Roy.

The doctor went a little pale.

‘How do you know. And you’re drunk.’

Roy chuckled mischievously, polishing the axe with the cuff of his jumper.

‘You’re right doctor, I am drunk, but let me tell you this, a drunkard notices things that you might not. I’ve seen the wife dropping you off here to inspect the private parts of people, what do you think I inspect, the washing up bowl? I have an innate curiosity for people and I’ve noticed her. Lots of different types of shoe.’

‘What exactly is it you want Mr Worklington?’ said the doctor sternly, slowly moving around his desk until he was within an inch of Roy. Each of them could feel and smell the other’s breath. Stale flat beer and eggs.

‘Do evil to me doctor and then undo evil to me. That’s all I ask.’  Roy pushed the axe firmly into the doctor’s chest and then moved over to the desk whereupon he fell to his knees and rested his neck over the edge.