Off the Rails

∨ Off the Rails ∧

20

Falling Idol

Panic was setting in now. What if it was too late? But there was no point in thinking about what might already have happened, and anyway, here was Matt in his crazy old rainbow-striped coat and brown woolly hat, raising a hand in greeting from the other side of the bar.

“I’m really sorry I’m so late; I don’t know where the time went.”

“That’s okay.”

“I bumped into an old pal from Nottingham, and we had some catching up to do. Hit a few bars together – I’d forgotten how much he could drink. Then I spent ages on the phone, and you know how that goes, right? It’s like I can’t do anything to please her. I’m like, ‘If you don’t want to come out with me, just say so’, right? Can I get you a drink?”

“No, let me get you one.” The smile must have looked painfully forced. The barman was summoned and a drink was poured. “Did you have a lecture this afternoon?”

“Yeah, the architect from Bartlett, the one with the stoop. The lecture was meant to be about traffic restructuring in the late 1960^s, but it was so data-driven that he lost most of us about halfway through. And I still have a hangover from last night. Then I got the nagging phone call and wasn’t allowed off the hook until she’d described everything that’s wrong with me in huge detail.”

“Did you tell her you were coming to meet me?” The obviousness of the question caused an inward cringe.

“No, you know I didn’t; you told me not to. Anyway, if she thought I was meeting up with you she’d accuse us of conspiring against her. A toast to my good fortune.”

“To winners.”

“Damn right. We’ve got the skills that pay the bills. Just in time, because I’m seriously broke. Here’s to money, the root of all evil.” Matt downed his vodka cocktail in one. He was drinking something that was a spin on a Smith & Wesson, vodka and coffee liqueur with a dash of soda. His version added an oily Sambuca to the mix. Matt looked even messier than usual. His tumbleweed hair needed a wash and there were violet crescents beneath his eyes. Everybody knew he was on his way to becoming a serious alcoholic, but tonight it was important that Matt drank at least another two or three doubles, otherwise the plan wouldn’t work.

“You’re always good with advice. I don’t know what I’m going to do about her. I just think I’m a little too wild for her. Right? She always wants to do the kind of things her parents do, go to Suffolk and see the rest of her family, go hiking, stuff like that. I don’t know what she’s going to do with a degree in urban planning. I don’t think she knows, either. She says she wants to become a member of the Royal Town Planning Institute like her old man, but she’s doing it for his sake.”

“You have to stop worrying about it so much, Matt. Take things as they come.”

“I can’t this week, you know that. There’s too much at stake now. Look at me, I’m shaking.”

“Let me get you another cocktail.”

They drank until the bar became too noisy and crowded. When Matt slithered down from his stool to weave his way toward the restroom, it was obvious that he was trashed. The rising temperature and the accelerating beats had conspired to increase the pace of their drinking.

Okay, while Matt’s gone you’ve got less than a minute to dig into his backpack and see what’s there. Evidence, evidence – phone, laptop, what else has he got? Now put everything back before he reappears. Done it – did he notice anything? No, he looks out of it.

“It’s getting late, let’s get out of here.” Matt jammed his hat back on his head.

The cold air outside was a sobering shock. It was important to get Matt into the warmth of the station before he sharpened up. They tumbled down the steps into Liverpool Street tube and made their way to the District & Circle Line.

There were no empty seats, so they sat on the platform floor to wait for the train.

Matt tried to focus. “I’ve got to stop drinking Smith & Wessons, nobody knows how to mix them properly. They’re supposed to taste like a liquidised Cuban cigar.”

“Yes, you told me that before.”

Matt massaged his forehead. “My brain’s banging against the sides of my skull. If I still feel like this in the morning I’m going to cut my first lecture.”

“It’s your call, I suppose, but you seem to be missing an awful lot of them lately.”

The train arrived and they lurched to their feet. Inside, unable to sit, they stood jammed against the curving doors of the carriage. Racing through the uphill tunnels toward the King’s Cross interchange it was necessary to keep a surreptitious eye on Matt. The thought came unbidden. Why did you ever put up with him? The amazing thing was that everyone seemed to idolise the guy. He was a walking disaster, yet the scruffier he looked and the more chaotic his life became, the more they hung on his every word. Especially other girls, the ones from outside the group, they couldn’t get enough –

—A buzz emanated from Matt’s backpack.

“Damn, that’s my phone.” Matt swung the bag from his shoulder and started rooting about inside it.

“You’ve got a signal down here?”

“God, where have you been for the last two years? There’s phone reception everywhere west and south of here now. Hampstead and – ” a long pause while he tried to frame the thought “ – Old Street, still a problem because of the tunnel depth or something. I dunno. Where the hell – ” The contents of his bag were tumbling over people’s feet, a dirty ball of stained T-shirts, some books with loose pages, half a dozen plastic pens, his phone –

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Together they started shovelling everything back into the bag. Matt helplessly attempted to pick up the fluttering pages. Then the train was slowing and they were arriving at King’s Cross.

“Come on, we have to change here. Zip up your bag.” Matt followed, lurching from the carriage, out and along the platform.

The scabrous half-retiled tunnel led to stairs, but Matt baulked before climbing them. “Give me a minute,” he protested, holding back in an attempt to steady himself, like a sailor in a storm. His chest was wheezing. Three teenaged girls passed them, heading toward the exit. A few tourists were dragging cases, a smartly dressed young couple and a drunk middle-aged man passed; after a few more seconds, there was no-one else.

“Hang on, I have to tell Ruby – ”

“You don’t, you’re fine.”

“No, have to do it, always letting her down, promised to say when I was on my way.” He poked hopelessly in his bag but still managed to find the phone and fire off a text in record time. The effort of concentrating so hard nearly made him fall over.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. Wait, wait.” It was time to produce the atomiser. “You left it in the bar. You should be more careful, Matt. You know how Ruby gets when you’ve been smoking and drinking.”

“Yeah, she can be a pain,” said Matt, compliantly opening his mouth and sticking out a furry tongue.

“Put your tongue in. Come on, Matt, you know how to do this.”

“Okay.” He was finally ready. “God, it tastes like – ”

“That’s because you’ve been hammering the cocktails tonight.” Anyone coming? No, the coast was clear. “Look, I have to get you home.”

“I’m meeting – ”

“I know, I heard. Don’t worry, I can fix that.”

“The train – ”

“Come on, concentrate on the stairs, you can do it.”

There was the depth-charge rumble of a train arriving, the last southbound Piccadilly Line trip of the night. A plug of warm air pulsed in the tunnel and lifted a newspaper. Pages drifted past as if brought to life.

Something was happening to Matthew Hillingdon. He felt himself rising, moving. Everyone likes me, thought Matt, it’s so great that everyone wants me to succeed, but they don’t know my secret. The secret is that I can’t help myself. Everything he ever did was because others told him to. Even when he could sense that their advice was hopelessly misguided, he followed it. He was like a stick in a drain, swirling around and heading for the gutter, but someone was always there to pull him out in time. She’s always there for me, he thought. Girls are great, they’ll give you, like, six or seven chances at least, if they really like you. Lately though, events had been shifting beyond his comprehension. You had to trust your friends, though, didn’t you? Otherwise you had nothing.

He was having trouble lifting his legs. Now his right arm was tingling. He’d drunk more than this before without losing control of his limbs. Weird.

The feeling got worse. Was this what dying felt like? My neurons are being deprived of oxygen, he decided. This will lead to the cessation of electrical activity in my brain – the modern definition of biological death. But it just feels like I’m falling very gently. Swirling around and around, toward the gutter.

I’m one of life’s naturally lucky guys, he told himself. What a charmed life I lead; there’s always someone there to catch me when I fall. I think I’m falling faster now. And there’s someone right here to catch me again. How perfect is that?