Interesting Feeling.

Staring death in the eye with a blade pricking my jugular - another true story from my new collection Kill Me Now.

 

Interesting Feeling.

The city streets are black and wet. Your friend’s living room glows amber from the light of lamps.

You feel safe; warm; relaxed.
You’re 23 and life is good.

Later this evening life will feel fantastic.
You will appreciate every single breath.

None of you want to go out. 

Saturday night is for amateurs: time to stay away from pubs, clubs and restaurants. Trouble is, everyone wants something to smoke, and nobody else knows how to get some.

You head off with your mate to Brixton, to score a little gear for the crew.

Fifty pairs of eyes turn to look as you walk into the pub. The centre of the bar is empty.

Everyone is hanging out by the walls, or the bar. Everyone is watching everyone else in a surreptitious way, that gives the impression they are in fact minding their own business.

Grabbing a pair of barstools, your mate orders pints, while you look around for your guy.

You’ve been shopping here a dozen times. You know your guy and he knows you. With deals like these it helps to know your guy. You know neither his name nor his marital status.

You know nothing about him, save for the fact that he has done you right in the past.

He’s your man.

After all your previous visits everyone else knows he’s your man too, so they leave you alone.

That saves a load of stress and hassle.

There he is, sitting over by the jukebox as usual. You catch his eye, exchange glances and head for the Gents.

It’s glaring bright white in there, heady with a cocktail of bleach and urine.

Nobody else about.
Excellent.

He’s a big guy, over six foot and chunky sideways too, wearing faded blue jeans, a black T-shirt under his brown leather jacket.

You speak first.

“Arright mate?”

“Yeh, harsit goin’?”

“Good y’know.”

“Watcha wan’? Black ‘ash?”

“Nah. I want some draw, if you got some.”

“Yeh I got some. How much?”

“Five?”

“Nah man, gonna cost you ten for draw. S’good bush, y’kna, s’Sensi, y’kna. Me personals.”

“Oh come on, you wouldn’t be selling ya personals to me.”

“S’good, y’kna, right?”

Suddenly three more guys come in. They’ve seen you walk in and they’re after your business.

You’re not interested in them.

One of them pushes forward.

“Hey man, watcha wan’? Ya don’ wan’ ‘is gear man, iss no good. Look, I got good ‘ash, see. Red Seal, see.”

“I don’t want no Red Seal.”

That was your mistake. You should have completely ignored the other hustlers.

Your man thinks he’s about to lose his deal, and while it probably isn’t worth that much to him, there’s ethics.

Yes, even in pub toilets on cold Brixton nights there’s ethics, and these other guys are out of order.

“Hey, wass yaaar problem? See, I deal with the man, see! He come to me befah, ya kna?”

“So what you say now, fool? You say I can’ no sell ‘ash in me own backyar’?”

A third guy takes hold of your hand, opens out your fingers, swiftly squashes something into your palm and then closes your fingers around it.

It’s an old trick. You got it, so now pay for it.

No way you’d ever buy like that, not without seeing and smelling the gear first.

Otherwise you’re going to end up with liquorice or oregano.

Things are getting a little messy, but you’re not sweating it. You’ve failed to learn that bad madness can happen any time.

Your man sees you holding the other guy’s gear and reckons you’ve done the dirty on him.

In the past he’s always been gentle of foot and vocal chord, but now he completely loses control, shouting and screaming.

“What ya doooin’, boy? You don’t do a deal with me? You can’t swap over, like, whenever you want, ya fool, bumbaclot.”

You step back in shock.

Stepping towards you

in one swift movement
he grabs you with one hand
by your neck,

the other by the rear waistband of your jeans.

He lifts you off your feet
 

into the air and
fast and strong
 

slams your back up
against the wall
above the urinal trench.

The others lads are laughing, but when he pulls the blade they start to jump up and down, yelling and screaming at him.

“Fuck’s sake man, get that blade off’ve ‘im! ‘Ees gonna kill that stupid fucka!”

“Bladclaart man, you wanna get the blade you get the blade. ‘Fee wanna kill the man ees gonna kill the man and nuttin’ we can do ‘bout it.”

He’s holding you a foot off the ground, choking your neck.

The power of his grasp presses your back against the wall.

You know the guy. He’d always seemed cool.

Tonight though he’s gone full whackadoodle on you.

You smell his breath. Curry goat patty.

Now he presses his shoulder hard into your chest, releasing the hand around your neck.

For a second you breathe in free rasps as he adjusts his grip, the hand now holding you up scrunched on the lapel of your leather jacket.

His other hand arrives at your freshly exposed neck, pressing his blade into your jugular.

There’s a fair bit of flesh on your bones.

It takes the strength of a mad man to hold you above the ground with one hand.

As long as he stays this mad you’ll be okay.

If he gets sane all of a sudden, and loses the strength to hold you up, you’ll slide down the wall,

onto the blade,
which will slide into your neck.

If he gets any crazier he’s going to stick it in anyway.

You can feel the cold metal tip pricking your skin.

The others aren’t pleased with all this. They’ve got businesses to run from the premises, and Babylon swarming all over asking questions they can do without.

They’re leaping up and down, shouting at him to let you go, but they can’t pull him away ‘cos then you drop.

If they try to get the blade off him he’ll do it anyway.

You know it’s nothing to him.

He can kill you, or he can let you live.

A dead white male on the toilet floor of a Brixton pub on a Saturday night: The Boys are not going to be overwhelmed by witnesses.

You’re aware that his mates are trying to get him off you.

You’re also aware that your wallet is being passed around out there somewhere, but that doesn’t worry you in the least.

The real game is between you and him,

up close

face to face.

He's using all of his strength to hold you up there.

You breathe hard on each other
his spittle hits your cheeks.

His eyes glare at yours
yours stare close up into his.

His sweat and heat on your sweat and heat.

You know it’s nothing to him.
He can kill you

or he can let you live.


You’re adrenalin calm.

 

Interesting feeling.

 

©Charlie Adley

24.02.2023