Chapter 6
LUKE
I don’t return to Earth Bar for another week.
I’d happily not return for another month, or until Neil forgets my existence entirely and I can go back to slinking around the periphery.
But Alaric nags and coaxes, and sometimes, especially with Alaric, saying yes is easier than saying no.
And it’s a dull Tuesday night, which generally attracts no more than a handful of regular faces.
Did I say dull? Fuck me, it’s anything but.
For a start, Jess the friendly barmaid is storming out as I wander in.
I catch her mid-diatribe, lobbing her middle finger over her shoulder at whoever has triggered her to throw down her apron and bugger off.
Glass crunching under my trainers, I cross the threshold. Bizarrely, Alaric is behind the bar.
“Luke, darling. OMG, you’re here.”
With the grace of a newborn deer, he pulls a pint.
Ten feet away, his hefty boyfriend, Gerald, has a man in an armlock, rammed up against the optics.
Two other blokes in hi-vis jackets are engrossed in the Chelsea match on the big TV, pretending there’s absolutely nothing to see, whilst another man in a suit sceptically eyes his sloppy pint.
“Er…yes? I am.”
I pause and blink, taking it all in. The man trapped in Gerald’s iron grip is Neil.
“Thank fuck.”
I falter, feeling as if I’ve walked into a season finale I didn’t watch the rest of. “I… am I in the right place?”
“Kind of! Look! I’ve taken charge of the bar!
” Alaric’s elfin face splits into a wide grin as if he’s been promoted to running a kingdom.
He probably could. He’s excellent in a crisis, which is why he thrives in the cut and thrust of acute surgery, whereas I’m more suited to the tea and sympathy of dermatology.
“Um… are you going to tell me what’s happening?”
“Neil is what’s happening.” Alaric pulls a face.
“He’s been on the pop all afternoon. God knows where he was drinking, but he rocked up here to start work in an absolute state and mouthed off to everyone.
He’s picked a fight with Jess, sent three customers packing because one of them allegedly looked at him funny, and then took a poke at Gerald.
As you can see, that went down really well.
” He shakes his head. “What the fuck has got into him lately?”
With another radiant grin, he hands the pint constituting more foam than beer over to his customer. “This one’s on the house, sir. As is the next.”
“The place will go bust if you keep pouring them like that.”
“Blame Neil, not me. I’m doing my best. Do I look like a bleeding publican?
” Alaric slips from behind the bar. “Gerald, cover for me for three minutes whilst I claw Jess back.” He raises his eyebrows.
“Her and Neil have had a…ah… difference of opinion. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate Jess pointing out he wasn’t in a fit state to be manning the bar.
When he’s sobered up, I’m going to be having some harsh words.
But for now, Luke, sweetie, I need you to take Neil upstairs and keep him occupied.
With a bit of luck, he’ll flake out until closing time. ”
Reluctantly, Gerald releases his hold. Neil staggers forward, cradling a half empty bottle of vodka like a baby.
When he spies me, his mouth widens into a smile brimming with lopsided charm.
By all rights, that shouldn’t be possible when he’s so drunk.
His half-lidded glassy eyes shouldn’t still catch the light, either, as if they know precisely the effect they have on me.
Even if he can’t quite recall my name. “Doc! My favourite derma-der-demalollogist! How’s that pretty lily of yours? You looking after it for me?”
The customer sipping his frothy pint snorts. “I’ve heard it called a few things in my time, but that’s a new one on me.”
“He’s all yours, Luke.” Gerald sends Neil in my direction with a rough shove. Him and Neil have never really seen eye to eye; Gerald’s possessive, and Neil and Alaric have history. “But I’ll warn you now—he’s a bit handsy. Good luck.”
I only came out for a quiet pint, I lament as Neil and I size each other up.
Or rather, I size up the chances of Neil coming willingly, and he sizes up Gerald, all crossed arms and broad shoulders, like a forbidding granite rock.
From the sudden sag of his own, Neil doesn’t fancy his odds of escape.
Instead, he lurches towards me, and my anxiety does a little jump-scare. I don’t like drama; I’m built for passive observation, not open combat. I don’t have Gerald’s muscles, for a start. What if Neil’s an aggressive drunk?
Another soft, tipsy smile and little hip shimmy hopefully answer that question. How the hell can someone so plastered still be so sexy? “We off dancing, doc? Night on the town, you and me? Whilst I still can?”
“He might be overestimating his coordination,” Gerald advises as Neil belches loudly and I duck away. Yep, that’s what the breath of someone drunk on vodka should smell like.
“Um…sounds fun. Maybe later.”
Though I hated every second of working ED, I garnered a few coping strategies to keep the drunks in line.
Keeping my voice low and calm, as if talking down a wild animal, I add, “Let’s get up those stairs first, keep Gerald and Alaric happy.
” I give my wristband a couple of flicks.
“Alaric’s got everything covered down here for a few minutes. ”
Amenably, thank fuck, Neil slings his arm around my shoulder with all the panache and refinement of someone who has no idea where their limbs begin and end. “You’re cute, you know, doc?” Slurring, he points at my face with a wavering finger. “You’ve got that thing, that…face.”
The hi-vis guys clap as I steer him out the bar.
He’s muttering the whole time, something about going to the moors and his eyes and some woman called Lizzie Arden.
Blissfully unaware of how much of his weight I’m supporting, we make slow progress up the stairs.
He’s heavy, warm, and slightly off balance, reeking of booze and, faintly, his outdoorsy aftershave.
“They’re going to take the bar off me,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“The bar. I’m gonna lose it. They’ll make me give it up.”
“Who? Alaric and Gerald? No they won’t. No one’s nicking your bar.” If anything, they’re trying to save it for him.
“Not them.” Neil shakes his head vigorously. “Ez and Isaac. When they find out.”
“They don’t need to know about this. I won’t tell them. Alaric won’t either.”
“Maybe he should. They’re going to find out everything soon. It’s all going to go tits up, doc. They’ll kick me out of the band, too. I’m royally fucked.”
What does he mean by everything? Somehow, I sense we’re talking about more than simply tonight. “Why? Have you been fiddling the books?”
He doesn’t need to, I’ve seen his healthy accounts.
“Fuck off, mate. I’m pissed as a fart, but I’m not a thief.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Does he have a drug problem? An alcohol problem? Is that why he’s been falling around and not himself lately, as Alaric hinted?
“Might as well be, ‘cos they’re still going to take everything off me.”
“Don’t be silly,” I respond. “You own this place with Ezra. He won’t care that you got drunk and messed up one evening. And you are the band. You’re the lead singer. Come on, we’re nearly there.”
When we reach the flat, he collapses onto the sofa with a groan. “It’s been one of those days, doc.”
Still clutching the vodka bottle, he clumsily unscrews the cap and takes a swig.
Neat vodka, ugh. I wince on his behalf. “One of those days that feels like it’s never going to fucking end.
” He belches again—behind his hand this time, surprisingly.
“And tomorrow it’s going to be the same all over again.
And again, and again. Until all I can see is black. ”
It’s no consolation, but I know how it feels when the lights dim and the dark folds in.
Is that what this is? Neil’s depressed? Or is black a metaphor for something else?
Or is he simply a sexy but melodramatic drunk?
Whatever. Something has happened today to upset him, and people do and say stupid, erratic things when they’re drunk and upset.
Things they sorely regret the following day.
So, as much as I’d love to return to the relative sanity of the bar downstairs, I take a seat in the armchair opposite.
“What’s wrong, Neil?” I probe. “Alaric’s worried about you, and so is Ezra. But they can’t help you unless you tell them what’s the problem.”
“I used to pretend I could beat it, you know?” He swigs from the bottle again, his beautiful, expressive eyes clouding over. “I used to think I’d be the one that beat the system. And I did, for years. I rode fucking high, doc.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe it is drunken rubbish after all. Perhaps he’s always like this when he’s pissed.
The flat looks the same as it did the last time I visited.
Comfortable, with its deliberately bold contrasting colours—the greys and the blues against pale walls—but not loved.
Stark. Aside from his mobile phone lying on the coffee table between us, there’s a distinct lack of stuff, taking tidiness to an extreme level.
His chaotic behaviour and this shrine to neatness doesn’t add up. What are we all missing?
With a pained groan, Neil tips his head back and closes his eyes. He kicks off his shoes and draws his legs up onto the sofa, settling in for the night. Perhaps this is his normal drunken routine. My cue to leave.
I bring him a glass of water, placing it on a low coffee table within reach. I contemplate finding the mop bucket and putting that by him too, just in case. But he’s a big boy, a party animal. This isn’t his first drinking session by a long shot.
“Stay,” he mumbles as I reach the door. “Stay. Please. I—I don’t want to be by myself in the dark.”
“What?”
“You heard. I need you to stay.”
I stop, my hand still on the door. They’re going to take the bar off me. All I can see is black. That plea, that cracked plea with all pride gone. I feel it in my gut. I recognise it and hate it, because I’ve been rock bottom too. And I’m not so high up now that I can’t still look down and see it.
Slowly, I turn back and return to the lounge to where Neil’s covering his eyes with his arm, like he did after banging his head.
I flick my wristband, more from habit than necessity.
Yes, I’m on edge, this whole situation plucks at every single one of my anxiety strings, but I’m in far better shape than Neil this evening, that’s for sure.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
At around midnight, the temperature drops and a chill creeps in.
Across the room, Neil’s lightly snoring, in no danger of choking on his own vomit or becoming sufficiently unconscious to obstruct his airways.
He’ll be cold too, when he wakes. I’ll stay until then—I promised him I would—and then shoot off.
I stand, rubbing my arms and stretching my legs. I could go up to the spare room and sleep in there, though if he was so drunk he doesn’t remember asking me to stay, he’ll get a hell of a shock when I wander down in the morning.
I could always grab the duvet from the spare bed instead, and snooze in the armchair.
It’s comfy enough. A much better idea. I grab Neil’s for him, too.
His bedroom is as basically furnished as everywhere else, with more of the contrasting colour scheme.
Here the walls are bottle green. The wardrobe, chest of drawers, and his wooden bed frame are painted off white.
I feel more at ease now I’ve come up with a plan.
I cover Neil with the duvet—instantly making him look far more innocent than I know he is—slip out of my trainers, and pull out my phone, placing it on the table.
Alaric’s texted a couple of times, and I’ve reassured him all is well.
Thankfully, Jess has returned, the beer is back to being drinkable, and Gerald is doing something manly with the kegs in the basement.
As I set mine down, Neil’s phone flashes, the screen glowing bright in the dim of the sitting room.
The font is huge—he has the big version of an iPhone—and I can read it from my chair.
A random advert from his mobile phone company informs him Congratulations!
You’re eligible for… There’s another one, too, from earlier and lower down the screen.
A different four-word header takes up all the remaining screen space. Your appointment at Moorfields...
Silently, my lips shape the words. Moorfields.
I did a placement there for a few weeks, during med school.
Even if I hadn’t, most Londoners are familiar with the historic name.
The original eye hospital in Islington has been around for a couple of hundred years.
Now, two or three more modern satellite centres also bear the famous name.
As the phone screen shuts itself off, as I stare at my sleeping host, everything falls into place.
The tumbles from the stage, the clumsiness with the glass of water at my place, the dyslexia that wasn’t much of a problem before but is now a convenient excuse.
Even the contrasting bold colours in the flat and the obsessive lack of clutter and trinkets.
You can’t knock off an ornament that isn’t there. Nor trip over a non-existent rug.
I don’t know how long I stare at my gorgeous, peacefully sleeping host, flicking my bead wristband.
A few hours at least. My stomach turns over and over, not sick, but weighed down from the gravity of knowing something I can’t ever un-know.
That I wasn’t supposed to know. I sure as hell don’t think anyone else does.
When Neil shifts in his sleep and a brief grimace crosses his lax, handsome features, it’s as if I’m seeing him for the first time. The real him, alongside the version he’s been hiding behind, cobbled together out of pride and fear.
And comprehending all of this, carrying this secret, makes my nerves jump. Keyed up and wide awake, my fingertips creep under the brim of my hood to the vulnerable soft spots on my scalp. They feel for the thicker hairs, the wiry ones, the satisfying ones. For an edge that needs straightening up.
I tug on a strand, my craving for the guilty relief powerful enough to overcome any amount of box breathing and wristband flicking.
It’s a private, lonely sorting. I expect all sufferers do it differently.
I yank on another and then another after that: pull, relief, pull, relief, pull, relief.
Trapped in an endless rinse-and-spin cycle, each pull being the last, and yet never quite enough.
And I keep on at it, over and over, until dawn creeps through the curtains and Neil begins to stir.