Nightmare CityHenry D. Robertson Dave’s eyes fluttered open. He hadn’t been asleep. He’d been unconscious. He knew well the difference. Sleep was deep, refreshing, dream-filled. Unconsciousness was just a vacant shop with the blinds drawn down. By now, he was too weary of the cliché to say: "Where am I?" He uncoiled himself from the doorstep and looked about him with a failing heart. He was slumped in the doorway of a shuttered shop in - where? Hackney? Southwark? Streatham? Was he even in London still? And how had he got there, wherever he was? He could remember drinking at the party in John’s flat in Hampstead - but after a spell he had gone into a black, empty tunnel of oblivion where anything could have happened - and which of all the nightmare possibilities had occurred? Shivering on the filthy mosaic entry to the shop, Dave found his coat was missing and rolled his eyes in disgust as he noticed spots of dried vomit on the jacket of his new suit. His hands were freezing and his crotch icy cold. He groaned as he realised he had wet himself. Holding his head with one hand, he staggered to his feet and leaned against the doorway, praying that a taxi would pass by - but did he have enough left to pay the fare? In panic, he thrust his hands in turn into all of his pockets. "Oh shit!" No wallet to be found. No notes. No credit card. No travel-card. Only a few coins remained in his trousers and a fiver in his top pocket. An entire month’s salary down the drain. "All that money gone - and I can’t even remember if I had a good time," he reflected with gritted teeth as the bank manager’s most recent letter floated to the surface of his mind: "We would appreciate it if, henceforth, you would conduct your affairs on a credit basis." He made himself walk along the deserted pavement hoping that last night’s party - or today’s plan - would become clearer in his head. He seemed to be in some shattered backwater, some derelict limbo, on a bleak Sabbath day. Empty streets. Shuttered houses - all so still and quiet that Dave started in panic at the sound of a railway train thundering past on the viaduct overhead. Sweating despite the cold and nauseous, Dave slunk along the street, sick with self-disgust and pale with dread. He came upon the semi-circular brick facade of a public house built into an arch of the viaduct. It was called "The Terminus." Dave pushed the door open. Inside, he found there were several drinkers sitting at tables in a small barroom where the smell of tobacco, stale alcohol and human bodies was powerful. Hoping that his trousers were dark enough to hide the urine stain, Dave moved quickly to the bar-counter where a man in a dirty apron stood reading a racing newspaper. "Yes?" he said, his eyes taking in the filth on Dave’s jacket. "A pint of best," said Dave and went through a hell of impatience as the bartender took his time in filling the glass. He paid with the note from his top pocket. Dave snatched the glass and took two greedy gulps of it before feeling comfortable enough to look about him. The place seemed to be a gathering point for rock-bottom alcoholics drinking cider. Two of the customers had been in heated discussion about an incident at the Jobcentre but they stopped talking in order to take the measure of Dave as he stood at the bar with his beer in hand and his new suit. After a few mouthfuls, Dave felt confident enough to look about him. He tried to give the impression of being a passer-by who had casually dropped in for a refreshment, but, as he absorbed the scene, he quickly focused on an odd feature in all of those present: each one of them had a coating on head, shoulders and sleeves of what looked like a fine white dust. At the table directly opposite Dave’s, one of the drinkers sat, motionless, with an expression of intense gloom in his reddened eyes. His long, straggly grey hair, his untidy beard and the topmost of the three overcoats he was wearing were all white with dust to such an extent that he looked as if he were a corpse defrosting after a lengthy spell in the mortuary. The only sign of life about him was what looked like growing rage in his eyes in the face of Dave’s fascinated stare. A further oddity was that each of the customers had put a beer-mat on top of the glass containing his drink. This gave a strangely religious appearance to the place, as if each of these glasses were a covered chalice awaiting the moment of communion. Or was it a sign that all those present belonged to some weird Masonic lodge? Dave turned back to his drink, shaking his head in puzzlement. In spite of himself, he began to tremble. Suddenly, he became aware of a menacing physical vibration as a train drew near the stretch of viaduct overhead. The electric light-bulbs began to sway as the train clicked and roared and thundered overhead, almost as if it would crash through the ceiling. Dave found he had to put out his hand to cover his glass because the violent movement of the train had the effect of dislodging a fine sanding of dust from the whitewash on the ceiling. At once, Dave realised the source of the frost which covered the customers - and also the reason for the displaced beer-mats. He smiled as he realised that, although the regulars there plainly did not mind getting their hair and clothes caked in dust, they didn’t like the idea of whitewash in their booze. It showed a refined sense of priorities. "My God," he thought, shaking his head, "if ever I got to be like them, I would know it was time to stop." Swallowing the last of his beer, Dave left the pub, avoiding the eyes of all present. On the corner of the street opposite "The Terminus" there was an old nameplate which said: "The Borough of Southwark: Caedmon Street". Dave sighed with relief. He was still in London. In his trouser pocket, he had enough change to make a local call and he could see a nearby kiosk. He walked along to it, praying that, despite the derelict appearance of the district, the phone would still be in working order. He discovered that it was. The sides of his mouth sagged with apprehension as he dialled John’s number. The phone rang for only a short time before being picked up. "Hello?" "Hello, John. It’s Dave." "Yeah?" "Look, John, I’m sorry about last night... I had a couple of drinks too many." "Only a couple, eh?" "Yeah... well." "And?" "Look, I’m sorry I left last night but I was a bit tight and I can’t remember where I’ve left the car and I was wondering if you could come over here to Caedmon Street in Southwark to fetch me back by taxi... I’ve lost my wallet." "You can’t remember where you left the car? Is that a fact?" "That’s right - though I know, I know, I shouldn’t have been driving it in my condition." "Oh, don’t worry about that, Dave - because you didn’t drive the car. It’s sitting right outside the door here - where you left it before you went away with that piece of trash off the street that your drinking-pal Ian brought along to the party. His name was Rex, remember? Surely you recall Sexy Rexy, don’t you? Did he live up to your expectations?" "I’m sorry. I don’t know who you’re talking about," murmured Dave. "That’s strange because you took a real fancy to him last night. As a matter of fact, you told the assembled company that he’d make a far better fuck than I’d ever been... and then you kicked Algie, you bastard!" Dave felt as if he were Dr. Jekyll listening, appalled, to a retelling of his exploits as Mr. Hyde. Sick with dread, Dave said: "Why would I kick Algie? I love the dog. You know that." "Not much sign of it last night. The dog came over to you wagging his tail, wanting to go for a walk with you, but you were in such a hurry after Sexy Rexy that you kicked him out of your way, up against the wall... He’s still shaking and whimpering in his basket. If he’s no better tomorrow, I’ll have to take him to the vet... You lousy bastard, what had that dog ever done to you that you should treat him like that?" John’s voice was trembling with rage and grief. Dave began to pound his forehead against the frame of the kiosk. Then he dragged it up and down along the woodwork till it hurt - wanting it to hurt. After a pause, he said: "Listen, John, my money’s going to run out in a minute. I’m really, really sorry about last night but could you please drive the car over here and fetch me home - and I promise you: I’ll never touch another drop?" "Get yourself out of this one," said John. The line went dead. Dave replaced the receiver and stood still, leaning his back against the wall of the kiosk. He thought of the many times he’d sat watching television with the Jack Russell terrier’s sleepy head resting on his thigh, occasionally licking his hand in affection. And so he’d split with John and injured little Algie all because of Sexy Rexy, whoever he was. Was he the one who had taken his wallet, dumped him in the street and left him without so much as memory - although another visit to the STD clinic would seem to be in order? What he had done to the dog was inexcusable - he had to get home and try to make some amends. But how? With his travel-card gone and only small change left, it might be a question of walking from Southwark to Hampstead, no easy undertaking. But what other alternative was there? Dave reckoned he had enough left to buy a half-pint to help him see more clearly what it was best to do. He walked back to the pub. Things hadn’t changed much when Dave returned to "The Terminus" and, avoiding the barman’s eyes, ordered a half-pint. He took the glass back to the same table and sat down. After two gulps of beer, he looked across at the man with the beard and three overcoats. He was still there - but was now looking back at Dave with a sneering recognition in his eyes. "Welcome back, old chap!" he said with cold irony, raising his glass of cider with a grand gesture. "I see you have returned to savour yet again the unique ambience of our cunning little retreat. Drink up! Drink hearty! To your very, very good health!" Dave looked away, intimidated by the unexpected toast as well as by the public school condescension with which it was delivered and sounded so out of place. How had this man ended up in such a setting? What could be his story? Dave started to tremble once more as the bar-room once again began to quake and echo with the thundering passage of another train overhead. As more white dust began to sift down from the ceiling, Dave took a beer-mat from the table and placed it on top of his glass.
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© 1999 Westminster Writers' Group. Last updated 02/07/99.