CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I caught you knockin’ at my cellar door,

I love you baby, can I have some more?

Oh, oh the damage done.

I hit the town and I lost my band,

I watched the needle take another man,

Gone, gone, the damage done.

I sing the song because I love the man,

I know that some of you won’t understand

Milk-blood to keep from running out;

I’ve seen the needle and the damage done,

A little part of it in everyone,

But every junkie’s like the setting sun.

   The Needle and the Damage Done - Neil Young

JUSTIN

By the time I get back to New York it’s evening.  I can’t face going back to the apartment because there’s no way I can handle Dylan at the moment, so I wander round Chelsea; moving from bar to bar, club to club.  I drink until I’m numb; I pull a few tricks; they buy me more drinks.  It vaguely occurs to me that this is Brian’s method of pain-management.

Right now I don’t care; I’ll take what I can get.  As long as I don’t have to think about Mom, or Molly, or Dad; Brian and Dan.  Fucking Lindsay and Brian.  It’s all too much.

By morning I’ve drunk myself more or less sober.  I find a diner, sip coffee, and watch the passers-by heading to work: the early-morning bustle of the city that never sleeps.

Everything goes on, just the same as it would have if I’d been the one to die five years ago.  Another insignificant tragedy with a short run, memorable only to the players and some of the audience.

I wait until I’m sure Dylan will have left for college, then I head home.  I need to sleep … I’m so tired I can hardly walk, but as soon as I lie down and close my eyes all I can see is Molly placing that rose on Mom’s coffin, or Brian’s face when I hit him.

Eventually I go and raid Dylan’s stash for a couple of Diazepam’s.  Then I sleep … and dream of Brian. 

We’re at Penn Station and I’m standing on the platform.  The train’s pulling out.  Brian’s at the window, screaming my name and hammering on the glass.  And I know I’m never going to see him again: never.  I’m too late.

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I wake up about three with dried tears on my cheeks, feeling like someone’s stuffed my head with cotton wool: so I drag myself into the shower and stay there until the water runs cold.  I rub myself dry and then go to the bedroom, wanting to dress and get out before Dylan comes home.  I check my cell and find I’ve got thirteen missed calls.  I bet they’re all from him, so I leave it turned off.  I know I should call him, I know I’m not being fair.  But that’s something else I don’t want to think about.

By the time I’m ready it’s nearly four.  I still feel sleepy and lethargic, so I take a snort of Dylan’s coke to wake myself up.

***************************************************

By the time I get to Tramps it’s nearly eleven.  Shaun’s on the door and I’m surprised not to see Boot’s familiar figure until I remember he’s in London.  I wonder if he’s met up with Daph yet, and what they’ll have thought of each other.

I’d give a lot to see either of them right now.

I make my way to the bar and order Tequila.  Stay on the same drink if you don’t want to throw up, right?  That’s what Brian says.  Such a good teacher.

I don’t know how long it is before Dylan turns up, but I’m dancing with this hot Hispano guy when I suddenly realise he’s standing there, glaring at me.  No, more than glaring.  He’s fucking furious.

“Where have you been?” he yells, grabbing my arm.

 I stare at him in disbelief.   “What the fuck are you on?  I went to a funeral … remember?”

“That was yesterday!”

Was it?  It seems much longer than that.

“You were supposed to be home last evening.  Where the fuck have you been since then?”

I shrug.  “Around.”

“And why has your cell been switched off?  I must have left half a dozen messages.”

“Thirteen,” I inform him.  I pull away and start back towards the bar.  “And I don’t need Twenty fucking Questions right now.”

He grabs me again.  “You’re so fucking selfish!  It’s all you, you, you!   What you want, what you don’t want!  Well, I’ve been worried sick … you have no idea what I’ve been through!”

For some reason this strikes me as hysterically funny and I start laughing.  “Oh, Dylan, if you only knew how little I care what you’ve been through!”

He stares at me, his face working, his eyes wild.  “You’ve been with him, haven’t you?”

I raise my eyebrows.  “Who?” I ask innocently, goading him now because I know damn well which who he means.

“Him!  Your precious Brian,” he sneers; and I find myself thinking how ugly he looks when he’s high.

“Yeah, I saw him,” I snap. 

He plants his fists on his hips, trying to look imposing but only succeeding in looking ridiculous.  “Did you fuck him?” he demands.

I snort laughter.  “No, actually it’s the other way around.  He usually fucks me.”

Dylan’s face goes white.  “Bitch!” he shrieks.

I change my mind about another drink; all I want to do is to get away from him as far and as fast as I can.  I head for the exit.

He’s hot on my heels, still pulling at my arm and shouting.  I keep going until we’re outside, then I turn on him.  “Leave me the fuck alone, Dylan, you insensitive prick!” I scream at him.  “I’ve just buried my mother, don’t you fucking get it!  I don’t need this crap!”

“My mother’s dead too, you know!” he yells back.

It’s too much.  I start laughing again, and I turn to walk away from him.  I need to find someplace else to sleep tonight, because I’ve just become homeless again; but Dylan still won’t give up.  I hear his feet running after me, and then he’s grabbing both my arms and we’re wrestling each other.

“Let me go, you tosser!” I yell, using one of Boot’s favourite epithets.

For a second he freezes, eyes blazing, then he shrieks: “Fine!  You wanna go, fucking go!” and he shoves me away from him as hard as he can.

We’re standing near the kerb, and as I stagger backwards my right foot twists under me and I lose my balance and stumble out into the road.

And then all I hear is the squealing of brakes and a hard blow to my right leg, and then nothing.

TBC