Lockdown Day 26: Friday 17th April, 2020

We skipped up the stairs to her room, the house cool and empty, smelling faintly of wild roses and almonds and stiff summer breezes. Despite the warm welcome, she was distant, distracted, puffy-eyed as if she had been crying. She squeezed me close, a fresh soul-searing clinch so tight I could hardly breathe. We stood perfectly together without words until she let me go. I risked a ripple in the troubled waters.

  “What’s up Angel?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. Just a little down.”

She pulled me beside her onto the bed.

  “You sure? You look kind of sad.”

  “Not when you’re with me. Never when you’re around Trick. It’s nothing.”

  I hated prying and I’ve never been accused of being a people person, but she was upset and unsettled, unhappy yet desperate not to let it show.

  “You know you can tell me. You can tell me anything. I can help.”

  “I know. I would. I want to. I will.”

  She was obviously deeply deeply troubled but I didn’t know what to do next. I couldn’t force her to tell me anything. She didn’t want to talk to me, but she looked as if she badly needed to. Something was wrong. Really shittily badly wrong. I had no idea what, but her whole body cried out to me. She needed to unload, to open up, but before I could force it she said “Back in a mo'” slipped from the bed and headed for the bathroom.

  I looked around. Girly room, posters, make-up, lacy knickers, tights, kurtas, silk and batik, belts, boots, beads, usual girly stuff that had been there every time I’d come over. Except in the corner there was something new, an old Vox keyboard, the swinging stuff of Sixties legend. I pictured myself in a Procul Harum ruffle cranking out a Whiter Shade of Pale on those transposed black and white keys fronting the broad red-backed organ, all monochrome on a black and white Top of the Pops. I posed at the keyboard, turned it on and riffed my best Jerry Lee Lewis glissando up the range with a leg lift for effect.

  Nothing.

  I looked around. Helps to have an amplifier wired up, I decided. I lugged in the Marshall amp from her brother’s room and plugged in, turned on, tuned out the world. Better, some noise now. I cranked out the staccato intro of Benny and the Jets. Not bad. Now, if I could just get a five-piece band in the hall we could have a jam. Starship Trooper came to my mind. Why? Why not? After a couple of aborted launches it came back to me and I cranked out something recognizable though a bit close to the edge. Yes. That was it. Now I was flying. I was soaring, losing myself in the music …

  “You’re pretty good, you know.”

  Cut.

  I hadn’t heard her come back. She floated by the door, detached again, disconnected in that way she had, a fractal soul apart, a player not quite in the game, party guest not really in the room, almost not there at all, lost and uncertain, adrift in furthur canyons of shadowed reverie, undecided whether she was on or off the bus. If I blinked she would be gone in that unsighted moment. There was definitely something wrong. She’s not there I thought, not fully there.

  “I wish. I’m not. I cheat. I just play the black keys. Or rather the white keys on this. That way everything harmonises. Aeolian ambling.”

  “No you don’t. I watched you. You do it right. I’d love to be able to do that.”

  She floated further into the room, stumbling slightly over her own semi-detached feet. She looked wasted, washed out, weird. An acid memory flashbacked my soul, a disembodied angel of grace and danger, misplaced icon in bloodied rags walking the line to endless nowhere, clutching to her bosom a pale crucified child dreaming of self-immolation. I shivered as finger ghosts rasped down my spine.

  “What’s up? Come on, you can tell me.”

  “There’s nothing. Nothing to say.”

  “Course there is. What’s the deal?”

  She ignored me, “I heard Benny and the Jets. Let’s have some Elton John. He’s brilliant. That was a great gig in May at the Apollo. He’s brilliant. And that Davey Johnson is a bit of a shag.”

  She rummaged at the bottom of the bed then pulled Madman Across the Water from its sleeve, slid it on the turntable and cued it up before slipping into my arms. Our bodies melted into one as she rested on my chest, saying nothing, breathing softly, holding tight. I stroked her head, gently ruffling her spiralled hair, soft, so soft, lilting back and forth across her freckled neck, and playing with the tiny lobes of her ears. My mind cleared as I lost myself inside her silence. Questions irrelevant, worries to be dealt with later, the forgotten keyboard, the unheard music, the undreamt future, night and day, I didn’t care. Always and forever, I lived for these moments.

  “Promise me something Trick?” she whispered carelessly.

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t ever lose that excitement, that wonder you have about everything, the questioning, the need to know, to understand, and that unswerving belief in the sanctity of life.”

  I laughed, “Sure. Fat lot of good it’ll do me though. When the world has got its eyes closed just asking the right questions will get you into shit.”

  She pulled my hand onto her lap, “Dance with me. Please.” she whispered into my neck, a frozen tendril of silken breath flowing sacramentally down the altar of my back.

  “I can’t dance.”

  “But you can. You know you can. You know you do. I’ve seen you. It’s a lonely dance, a solitary dance I know so well. I’ve seen you at gigs when you think no-one’s watching and you lose yourself in the music. I’ve seen you at sunrise when you feel there’s nobody around and you dance to the strains of some beautiful aria of the dawn no-one can hear but you and a wild violet aurora engulfs you. I’ve seen you through the night when you think I’m sleeping. You get up and you rummage quietly through scattered albums and pull out John Martyn or Jefferson Airplane. Then I drift in and out this waking dream to sweet strains of May You Never or Somebody to Love while you sway gently in silent reverie. A simple ballet of your soul. So you should dance with me. Before the wonder is gone. Before this fearful waltz is done. I need you to dance with me.”

  She clasped me closer, tighter, tenser. She held me as if she never wanted to let go. I pulled her even closer to my heart and buried her softness on my chest. We swayed to the rhythm, almost dancing, almost, almost…

  Suddenly her legs crumpled and she slumped backwards onto the bed.

  “Angie!”
Shocked, I grabbed her shoulders and twisted her round to face me. A sudden deathshead confronted me, unfocussed eyes rolled wildly, laboured breath wheezed loud, all colour drained from her face.

  “Angel. What’s wrong? What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s up. Everything’s down.” she cried in my arms.

  “Angie, what have you done, what are you on? What have you taken? Come on. You’re totally out of it. What are you on?”

  She looked so bad. It looked so serious, but I really had no idea. Not then. Not yet. 

  She murmured, “Out of it. Not quite enough though. It’s always there at the back of the room. In the shadows. Never really out of sight, out of mind… never quite enough. Never …” then slumped further. Unconscious. I heaved her roughly back onto the bed and perched beside her. I shook her gently, then more harshly, a stifled moan the sole response. I lifted one pale arm by its tiny wrist, only for it to flop beside her when I released it. I grabbed a half-empty tumbler from the cluttered dresser and sprinkled cold drops of water over her face and neck. There was no response. I tilted some onto her forehead, to no greater effect. Panicking, I splashed the water over her. She simply groaned and turned away, her breathing laboured, her forehead cold, beaded sweat, her pulse racing then retarding, coming and going, strong strong strong, strong strong weak, strong weak weak. I had no idea what I should do. I had no idea. 

  I rushed downstairs and dialled 999.

  “Ambulance, help me.”

  “I said ambulance, hurry up.”

  “7 Castleturret, Knightswood.”

  “What the fuck does that matter? Hurry up for fuck’s sake.”

  “Trick then.”

  “Yes Trick.”

  “No! it’s not a joke.”

  “It’s my girlfriend. I think it’s an overdose. She’s comatose. She’s just lying there. She’s not fucking moving. I can’t get her up.”

  “I don’t know what to do. She’s out cold. I don’t know what to do.”

  “How the fuck should I know? I haven’t taken any. I don’t know what she had.”

  “No, honest. I don’t know. I’d tell you if I fucking knew?”

  “OK I’ll look, but get the ambulance here now. Give me a minute.
Don’t hang up!”

  I rushed into the bathroom. The syringe lay beside the sink where it fell, empty on a carpet lightly flecked with sharp blood, a single cold drop welling on the precipice of the hypodermic needle. No attempt to hide it. Oh, Angel, how bad was it? How could I have missed it? Junk? Tracking the mainline over the months, the pieces fell into obvious place in hindsight, a fractured jigsaw coming together dimly through the fogged lens of my youth, an image never fully exposed. I leapt down the stairs and yelled down the line, “I think it’s brown. Yeah, heroin. Needle’s in the bathroom. What do I do? Keep her moving? Make her sick? Stick her in a cold bath? OK. OK.”

  “OK. Hurry up. I’ve got to get to her. Hurry up. Get that ambulance here.”

  When I ran back in her room, she had vomited heavily over the pillow. Good or bad, I had no idea. I clasped my arms around her and hauled her off the bed. I checked her airways for vomit and bile choking her but she was clear so I hoisted her roughly upright. She was a rag doll, no weight, a porcelain figurine, so white, so easy to lift, a child lost in time, not yet an adult no matter what she thought. This shouldn’t be too hard, I thought and dragged her legs along the carpet. They’ll be here soon. She’ll be fine. Just keep her going till they get here. Not too hard. Just keep her awake and moving.

  “Angela! Angie! You’ve got to walk with me. Come on. Open your eyes. Open them!” I begged.

  Faint familiar baby eyes flickered open as she cast her pirate smile my way.  

  “Hello gorgeous. What you doing here?” she whispered seductively.

  “Come on Angie, hold me closer. Don’t let go.”

  “No chance of that, Trick, I love you.” she murmured as she entwined chilling arms around my neck.

  “I know you do. I know. Come on Angie. Look at me. Look at me! Keep walking.

Move!!” I yelled.

  “One step after another. Walk!” I pleaded.

  “You light up my life. Softly. Softly. Only you can hear me.” she sighed.

  In the background Elton John sang life into a Tiny Dancer. Blue jeans, sweet dreams, pretty eyes, pirate smile. My dancer. She spiralled through the hallways of my mind, an ethereal ballerina dancing in the quicksands of time. 

  “Come on, dance with me. Look I’m dancing, Angel. For you. Only for you. Come on.”

  I held her tighter as we danced darkly in those thickening sands. “Talk to me. Talk to me about summer. This summer. Next summer. All the summers. Think of the fun we’ve had this summer, this year. Think of the fun we’re going to have next year. We’ve got all the time in the world to play with.” I rambled.

  Her voice grew fainter, “Yes. Cos it’s time and time is time, all the time in the world and none. Don’t ever let me go baby.”

  I struggled to keep the tears from overwhelming me, “No! Think of it. It’s still summer. Hot days and steamy nights. And it’ll soon be Autumn – gig season. When we met. Hillage and Hawkwind are playing the Apollo. Santana, Joan Armatrading, Neil Young. Aerosmith… Thin Lizzy… Rod Stewart. Wild nights in the Blenheim and the Howf and the Amphora with scorching music and all our crazy mates. Winter will be great. Long nights and friendly fires, snow in the park, partying the night away at Hogmanay. Then spring. Green and clean, past years washed away in April showers, all the budding new life.”

  “No! No new life.” she trembled, “An icy spring, Earth frozen and barren. Snow should fall overnight in cold and dark and deep, deep pain so the days can be always bright and sunny. The kids play together in the parks, open hearts and open roads, and we’ll dance and you’ll always dance with me. You’ll only ever dance with me. You’ll always look after me. Don’t ever leave me. You’re my beautiful darling baby boy.”

  “I’m dancing with you now. That’s it, Angel, come on. I’ll never leave you. I’m your baby. Talk to me. Not about the cold. About summers. We’re going to have long, hot summers. Kit’s wild cousins coming over from Norway and Amsterdam again next year. We’ll go away together. Camping in Glencoe, shady dips in twinkling rivers idling through the mountains, beers in the Clachaig with HoneyMonster and the crew, long walks on Atlantic beaches in days of summer sea and sand. Can’t you just feel the sunshine? Can you see the alabaster shores of forever stretching the circus sands?”

  “Yes. Yes. … the dark hills will be light  … the valley … the shadow will be  … peaceful …  we dance  …  we dance beneath the diamond skies sheltering amber suns.

Clear skies, but the sun is cold, there’s no warmth, it’s gone forever. How can we live without sun?”

  Her speech grew more incoherent, her breathing shallower and more infrequent, the gaps and pauses lengthening her, drawing her out in the quickening time engulfing us both.

  “But Angel. We just need to fly closer to the warm, hot sun fusing those crystal skies. You saw them. All the light in the world, all the time in the world refracting through a diamond rainbow.”

  “Every diamond has flaws, Trick.

I love you… Never, never change. You’re the best … the best thing that ever happened to me. But I’m not strong enough. I can’t stand it!”

  “So stay here with me. I’m strong enough for us both. Keep with me here. I love you Angel.”

  Her eyes were retreating, a milky whiteness dulling the absolute clarity of life as she cried bitterly, “But I don’t love me. I don’t love me.”

  Her soulcry cut me to the quick. I stuttered on, my heart in pieces, “But Angel, I do. I do! In the autumn we’ll camp by the shore, we’ll watch the mornings come, the sun rising, we’ll sit, we’ll sit …”

  The tears choked my words as I spluttered and cast about for something, anything to say. A reason. Any reason.

  “… silhouetted by the sea.” She completed my words just as she completed me. She gently stroked my hair as she had when first we met a lifetime ago, “You are gorgeous, far too cute for a boy.

  Long dark silk draped over … shoulders so straight.

Bright chocolate eyes …”

  I clasped her hand firm behind my head, my hair entwined in grateful fingers as she whispered, “Think good thoughts about me always.”

  “You’ll always be here to tell me yourself. I can’t get a word in edge-ways.  Come on. Talk to me. Talk to me about all those hopes and hippy dreams you won’t shut up about. Tell me about the heart of the sunrise. About the hippy trail to the east, the coast road to Marrakech, Chicago to California on Route 66, the long and winding road …”

  She was growing heavier again, the weight of a life in my arms, but still we danced our dream as she drifted further, “A world with no borders. Let me know the way. Never let me go. Never let me know. Never let me know the winter of my life.”

  “Angie. Angel! Winters are beautiful. Fresh snow will fall and we’ll play like little kids in it. We’ll take a sled to the park and tumble down those slopes we came together on. You’ll throw snow in my face and stuff it down my neck and I’ll shiver as I rub some down your back and we’ll hug each other warm. We’ll scale those distant peaks and embrace the wild and windy night on unspoilt summits under a clear blue sky…”

  “The sky’s on fire…”

  “No! It’s not. Angel. The sky is not on fire! And the cold wind will blow, but we’ll hold each other close and our melting bodies will chase away that winter chill together. And I’ll always keep you warm. I’ll always keep you warm!”

  I ran out of words as my feet kept going, shuffling on. She drifted in and out, a tiny dancer in my hand as we played out our fateful climax.

  “God, I love you. Only you ever came close. Only you ever touched me…” She gasped a tortured breath, “Never stop shining.”

  I could do nothing. I was frozen in her pain, the unknown anguish and agony. My happy-ever-after stillborn, my ever-aching just breaching.

  “Never let me go. Never let the cord be cut. Don’t ever let me go. Don’t leave me standing here …

But let me go now.”

  Dancing with death and wrestling with God, I could do nothing. I could say nothing. I had no words.

“The sky’s on fire, Trick. It burns. The sky’s on fire.”

  She stared deep inside me, far beyond my breached spiritwall into the rising flames of my phoenix core and pleaded, “Catch my soul, Trick.
Promise me baby. Hold me forever. Take me now.”

  She slumped into my arms, no weight at all. No strength in her limbs, spirit fled, fleeting echoes of life teasing my growing grief.    

  She smiled intensely, resigned and contented, clasped my hand tightly to our broken heart, “You were only fifteen.”

  When I couldn’t hold her any longer, when my arms were dead, I laid her down in white sheets of linen, softly, slowly, forever part of me.

  And when my tears failed forever as the Police burst through the smart green door, as the Paramedics pounded up the quiet stairs, as they thrust me aside, as they tried to resuscitate the pale-white figure that was no longer Angel, as the Inspector held me back and I watched in disconnected silence, as they stared at me and the numbness began, all I could think was,

  ‘Count the headlights on the highway, Angel.’