Kiss Heaven Goodbye Part 51
Walking back into the lounge, wiping his mouth, he could see that every available surface was covered in crushed cans, open tins and pizza boxes. What a s.h.i.t-hole What a s.h.i.t-hole, he thought. He had barely left his west London home since he'd returned from his mum's funeral six months earlier. He had an arrangement with the man in the off-licence to bring him a box of booze and snacks every day, taking the empties away when he left, although Alex had to admit he'd been getting a little lax on tidying up over the past week.
Maureen had died in her sleep, but that brought him little comfort. He had watched her suffer for weeks, months, the pain creasing into her face. She'd been brave, of course, hadn't wanted Alex to see how much she was suffering, but the cancer swept through her so quickly, the doctors had struggled to keep up with the morphine. During the last days, they had let her come home, and Alex had even allowed himself to think she was getting better. She was sitting up in bed, her eyes bright and clear, talking about the old days, when she and Alex's father had bought their first car, a Hillman Imp, and had taken it for a run out to Southport. Now, Alex thought it had all been for his benefit, to make him feel better, not her.
'It's going to be OK, love,' she would say whenever he cried.'You'll be strong for me, won't you?'
Back in London, Alex closed his front door and quietly fell to pieces. He felt utterly lost, adrift in the world with nothing solid to cling to. All he could do was blot it out, drinking anything that came to hand: sherry, gin, the ouzo he had brought back from his trip to Greece with his mum. Drugs were all around him in his part of London, and he tried them all, plus a long list of prescription drugs. He just wanted the pain to stop.
He walked over to the TV and snapped it off, then slowly climbed the stairs, running a tepid bath. When he was ready, he took a cab into Soho. No one bothered him in the West End's busy, grimy streets. Two weeks' beard growth and unwashed hair helped, as did the bottle in his hand. No one wanted to bother the crazy drunk guy with the red-rimmed eyes. Besides, since his split with Melissa, Al Doyle was no longer a 'celeb'. He was back to being an everyday, common or garden musician. He barely rated a mention on Perez Hilton any more.
He dropped in at the Coach and Horses, still quiet before the lunch rush. He ordered a double brandy and a pint and retreated to a corner to read his book, an account of the 'Enfield Poltergeist', a malevolent spirit that had apparently possessed a teenage girl in the 1970s. He had always been interested in the unexplained, but since his mum's death he had begun to think about it a lot more. Maybe good spirits could come back and watch over you, he thought. Or maybe bad ones, angry ones, could come back and screw you up. Maybe we're all ghosts Maybe we're all ghosts, thought Alex. Maybe this whole thing is all an illusion Maybe this whole thing is all an illusion.
By seven o'clock, Alex had been in eight pubs, an off-licence and a sushi restaurant, where he drank the sake and left his teriyaki untouched. By nine o'clock he was in Soho House, slurring his words as he said, 'Dom Perignon, barman,' banging his hand on the counter. 'And make it snappy.'
That was the last thing that Alex would remember clearly, the point where his anchor gave way. Time seemed to be telescoping and contracting. He felt shaken up and disorientated, like he was on a rollercoaster he couldn't see. He was blacking out, then tuning in again, with no idea what had happened in between. First the waitress was bringing the champagne over to the table, then the bottle was empty, upside down in the ice bucket. Next he looked up and there were two girls sitting next to him, then he glanced away and they were gone. Drink through it Drink through it, said a voice in his head. Keep drinking and it will all go away Keep drinking and it will all go away. He ordered some tequila, then some brandy, then some exotic beer that tasted of leaves. Then he found himself sitting on his own. Had he been asleep? Suddenly all these jump-cuts were starting to scare him. He wanted to get home. But where was home exactly?
'Here you are, mate,' said the driver. 'Camden High Street.'
'What? Why are we here?'Alex couldn't remember getting into the cab, let alone telling him to go to north London.
The cabbie gave a world-weary shrug. 'You tell me, pal.'
Alex looked around as the cab pulled away. At least now he knew where he was. He was standing at the door to the flat where the rest of Year Zero had lived all those years ago. The buzzers were the same; only the labels had changed. The top flat bell, which the lead singer had labelled as 'Jez and the Others', now read 'Taya B.' In fact, now he looked, a lot of things had changed. The kebab shop opposite the station was now a florist's and the corner shop that sold cheap bread was now a bistro. It had been cleaned up a lot. Alex didn't feel at home here either. He stumbled along the street, the headlights of the pa.s.sing cars blurring into streams and trails, the people walking past giving him a wide berth. Another drink Another drink, the voice whispered, just to steady your nerves just to steady your nerves. Haltingly, he approached a pub wasn't it a bank? but a penguin-suited bouncer stepped out, one hand up. 'Not tonight,' he said not even recognising him. Alex began to protest, then saw the look in the man's eyes and kept walking, turning into a convenience store with a neon sign in the window: '24/7'. That's me all right That's me all right, thought Alex, giggling to himself. He pinballed down the narrow aisles, bouncing off shelves either side, colliding with a carousel display of cheap plastic children's toys and sending some crashing to the floor. 'Sorry! Sorry!' he said, gathering them back up. 'My mistake, no harm done.' Glancing towards the counter, he grabbed a water pistol and stuck it into his pocket. That'll teach the b.u.g.g.e.rs to rip me off That'll teach the b.u.g.g.e.rs to rip me off, he thought crazily.
Suddenly the shopkeeper, a small Korean man with half-moon gla.s.ses, was standing in front of him.
'What you want?' he asked. It was only then that Alex noticed the man was clutching a broom.
'Drink,' he said. 'Just want a drink. Tequila.'
'No tequila!' shouted the man, waving his broom angrily. 'You go!'
'What about gin?'
'No drink!' barked the man, prodding Alex with the end of his broom. 'I call police.'
'Just a half-bottle,' said Alex, almost pleading now. It looked as though the old man had taken against him for some reason and he really wanted that gin.'Look, I have money ...' He reached into his pocket for his wallet and instead pulled out the water pistol.
The shopkeeper jumped backwards as if electrified. 'Police!' he yelled, running towards the door. 'Call police!'
Alex looked down at his hand, the misunderstanding slowly dawning on him. 'Oh no, this is just a toy ...' he said, tripping over a pile of newspapers and crashing into a shelf of baked beans.
'There he is!' shouted the shopkeeper. 'He smash up store!'
Next to the old man was another figure, wearing all black, talking into a radio.
'Stay calm, sir,' said the policeman, walking forward. But Alex wasn't waiting. He ran towards the back of the shop, crashing through a door. All he could think was that he had to get away. It was some sort of storeroom: stacks of cardboard boxes, pallets of tins covered in clear plastic. He ran towards a door at the rear. It was locked. He looked around. There were no windows.
'Let me out, you f.u.c.kers!' he shouted.
Outside he could hear the wail of police sirens.
'Oh s.h.i.t, oh s.h.i.t,' he said, running back and slamming the storeroom door, bolting it closed. He'd read about people getting shot by armed police. He leant against the door and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Who to call? Who could help? His heart was hammering, and sweat was rolling down his face, despite the coldness of the storeroom. Outside he could hear shouts and heavy footsteps. He picked up the phone and scrolled to a number he hadn't used for years.
'Miles. You have to help me.' Alex spoke quickly, his voice trembling.
'Go on,' said Miles. Calm, unflappable. The police were banging on the door now.
Alex quickly explained. 'What should I do?'
'OK, I'm in New York,' said Miles. 'But I'll call my lawyer, he's in London. His name in Michael Marshall. He will find you and I promise you he will fix this.'
'Thanks, Miles, thank you, thank you.'
'A friend in need and all that,' said Miles.
The door lurched inwards. 'Miles, they're kicking the door in, what should I do now? Miles, help me Miles, help me.'
'Stay calm, Alex. Don't do anything stupid. Michael will come and find you. Leave it to me. Oh, and Alex?'
'What?'
'I'd get away from that door.'
Just as Alex moved out of the way, the wood splintered and flew inwards, rapidly followed by three policemen. Alex started sobbing. He drew the water pistol and pushed it against his temple.
'Stop there or I'll shoot,' he cried as a policeman wrestled him to the ground and cuffed his hands behind him.
'I only wanted a drink,' he whimpered. And then he blacked out.
59
May 2009
Approached along the long crunchy drive, Second Chances looked like a particularly elegant country house hotel, the sort where guests took high tea and debated which spa treatment to try next. But the eighteenth-century Bath-stone manor house was a very different type of residential property. The front door could only be opened with a master key, the rooms had narrow beds with foam mattresses and the food tended to come from large catering tins, warmed in a vat. You didn't come to Second Chances for a holiday; you came here because you had no other choice. Its literature described it as a 'rehabilitation facility', but this was no overgrown health farm for stressed-out celebrities who'd overindulged on the party circuit. Second Chances was a real hospital, for people with real problems. And for the last three weeks, it had been Alex Doyle's home.
He could only remember fragments from the first few days of his arrival. He had been isolated and sedated, a nurse monitoring him around the clock. He'd vacillate between shivering, begging for more blankets, then rolling sweats and diarrhoea as the drugs and alcohol left his system. It was a little-known fact to Alex at least that withdrawal from alcohol was infinitely more drastic and life-threatening than from drugs such as heroin. Booze could take days, even weeks of physical pain, hallucinations and genuine sickness. Alex ran the gamut. But slowly, very slowly, he had come up for air.
After isolation, he was a.s.signed to share a room with a young man named William everyone was paired up with a buddy; no one was allowed to sit and mope alone. Their illness, they were repeatedly told, could be mastered, but only through constant vigilance. The addiction wanted you to be weak, it wanted you to feel sorry for yourself, it wanted you to go and get wasted. So all day and late into the evening, in group sessions and individual one-to-ones, they were told to confront their shortcomings, confess to their transgressions. Alex found he had plenty to say.
'Don't rush it,' said Dr Wilson, the morning of Alex's fourth week. 'If you'd broken your leg, you wouldn't expect to be able to run the hundred metres so soon, would you?'
'But I do feel better,' said Alex. 'I'm not shaking or nauseous and I'm sleeping better than I have in years.'
'That's good. But remember, addiction is both physical and mental. Your body may be free of the toxins, but your brain needs time to heal too.'
The trouble was, Alex had never been much good at patience. He had always been anxious to get on to the next thing. He had mastered the piano, so he learnt the violin, then the rest of the orchestra. Then, when he outgrew the music department at Danehurst and was due to go to the Royal Academy, he wanted to jump forward again, so he had joined a band. There was always another peak to climb. The therapists pointed out how 'enabling' his choice of lifestyle had been for someone p.r.o.ne to addictive behaviour. Yes, drugs were available in the music industry, sure, but what was damaging was the emptiness of Alex's life. As soon as he had a nice guitar, he wanted a bigger amp. As soon as he had an Aston Martin, he wanted a helicopter. He had a nice girlfriend, but he wanted a movie star. He was constantly chasing the next high.
Finally, in group therapy one morning, another patient had asked the question he had been avoiding: 'What are you running from, Alex?' And suddenly, without warning, Alex began crying, his shoulders heaving with the sobs.
Glancing out of the window of the day room, a gla.s.s-fronted conservatory where the patients would sit between sessions, Alex could tell visiting hours had begun. Visitors were strictly vetted they didn't want your dealer turning up and were limited to a two-hour visit twice a week. For someone who had hundreds of so-called friends all around the world, Alex had only managed one short visit from Ted Sullivan, who had filled him in on everything being done to contain the news of his 'little break'.
Today, however, it was different. Today, Alex had a real visitor and he was as nervous as a teenager going on his first date. Unable to sit still, he walked towards the front door and almost b.u.mped right into her.
'h.e.l.lo, stranger,' said Grace, hugging him warmly. 'I love the new look.'
Alex laughed, relief flooding through him. When Grace had written to request a visit, he hadn't known how he would react, but now she was here, he felt relaxed and comfortable.
'I thought it was time for a change,' he said, rubbing his hand over his straggly beard. 'But you look fantastic.' She was wearing a cream sweater and a grey pencil skirt s.e.xy but elegant, Grace Ashford's signature look, he smiled.
He led her out into the grounds, where the sunshine warmed his face, and they began to walk slowly down towards the water.
'Well it's nice to see you looking so good,' said Grace.
Alex chuckled. There were no mirrors in Second Chances they were broken too often but he caught his reflection in the windows at night. His eyes were sunken and his jeans hung loosely around his shrinking waist. 'It's kind of you, but I look like s.h.i.t,' he said. 'Is that what they told you to say?' He nodded towards a nurse who was subtly keeping tabs on the patients.
Grace frowned. 'No one told me to say anything.'
'Sorry, it's not paranoia,' said Alex. 'It's just they have this policy at Chances no negativity. There's a guy who was drinking lighter fuel before he came in here. His skin looks like tissue paper and his eyeb.a.l.l.s are pink, but everyone keeps telling him how amazing he's looking.'
Grace smiled and put her arm through his. As they walked, he filled her in on his situation. The blackouts in Soho House, the raid on the off-licence and his frantic call to Miles. From his talk with Ted, he told her how Miles' lawyer had paid off the Korean and persuaded the police and the hospital he had been taken to not to section him as long as he came straight to Second Chances.
'Well he's done a good job of keeping it quiet,' said Grace. 'I haven't read anything in the newspapers about it.'
'Apparently David Falk the guy who owns my record label was toying with the idea of leaking it to the press. Said the idea of me being sectioned might give me a more edgy image. But Ted and Miles talked him round and they've kept a tight lid on it. I don't want to be seen as a b.l.o.o.d.y freak show.'
'Has anyone recognised you here?'
He nodded. 'It's kind of hard to avoid we do nothing but talk about ourselves in group therapy. But people are pretty cool about it and everyone wants to help each other get well. Of course there are plenty of people round here more famous than me.'
'Really?' said Grace, wide-eyed.
He pointed. 'That guy over there told me he was Jimi Hendrix yesterday.'
She punched him on the arm.
'Honestly, though, they ponce this place up with words like recovery and rehabilitation, but really it's a psychiatric unit. A nut-house. '
'It's a hospital, Alex, and they're just here to make you well.'
He laughed. 'You sound like the doctors.'
'Well, maybe that's because they know what they're talking about.'
They walked a little way further.
'So if I haven't made the papers, how did you know I was here?'
She pulled a face. 'Miles told me.'
'Ah. Discretion was never his strong point, was it? Has he sent you to baby-sit?'
'I wanted to come.' She turned towards him. 'You know, I wish you'd told me about what was going on. You needed someone, Alex, and I feel horrible that I wasn't there for you.'
Alex waved a hand. 'Grace, I didn't want anyone to be there for me. Besides, I'm learning all sorts of things about myself in this place, and one of the blinding revelations is that no one could have stopped me being an a.r.s.e. I had to hit bottom before I even knew I was in a hole. So don't feel bad. Not even I I knew I needed a friend.' knew I needed a friend.'
'I wish I'd been able to try.'
'Tell you what, why don't you take me out when I leave this place?'
'Where do you want to go?'
'Anywhere with food. The grub's so awful here, I've started to make mental lists of all the things I'm going to eat when I get out, like prawn c.o.c.ktail crisps and spaghetti carbonara and Marmite sandwiches G.o.d, I miss Marmite!'
She giggled as they sat on a bench by the lake.
'So what are you going to do when you get out of here, Alex?' she said more seriously. 'You know you're welcome to come and stay with me and Julian at Toddington, that's if you're not heading back to LA.'
'I don't think I'll be heading anywhere within a one-thousand-mile radius of Melissa.'
'Have you heard from her?'
He shook his head. 'And don't get all sad about it,' he said. 'It's funny, in the middle of all this madness I can actually see things more clearly now. Me and Melissa should never have got together. I mean, we met on the morning of 9/11, did you know that? The thing that brings people together isn't always love. It's timing, convenience, sadness, guilt.'
'Like us?'
He gave a slow smile.
'Do you ever think about him?' Grace said finally. 'The boy from that night?'
'At first I couldn't stop thinking about him,' said Alex. 'But then slowly it got less and less it's tragic, but you move on with your life. At least it seemed that way, but deep down I think I've always carried it with me.'
He paused, looking down at the bench, running a fingernail along the grain of the wood.
'It's funny, you take drugs to make yourself feel good, but since Angel I've never felt truly good, never really liked myself. But being here, I've realised that it's not all down to one night. There's plenty of other stuff to pick from: my dad dying, the guilt of not being able to look after my mum, the loneliness of going to Danehurst because it was what I thought she wanted. In actual fact, we'd both have been happier if I'd stayed at home.' He laughed. 'Sorry for sounding like a self-pitying b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but it's what we do here.'
Grace put her head on his shoulder. For a split second Alex felt they had been transported out of Second Chances hospital and whizzed through the air. Now they were two lovers, two ordinary people, sitting by the boating lake in Regent's Park, enjoying a happy, comfortable silence. It was wonderful, a perfect moment that made his heart want to burst. And then it hit him. He was happy because he was here, right now, with Grace. It was Grace who made him happy. I love her I love her, he thought with overpowering clarity. Emotion welled inside him. All he wanted to do was just kiss her.
'Alex?'
He turned round to see the white uniform of one of the nurses.