One late summer afternoon I visited my friend, Lane, in his house share in a rundown neighbourhood in north London. He was sitting like a yogi on his mattress that was slung across the floor along with bundles of his late father’s vintage clothing, a mess of tabloid newspapers and multicoloured post-it notes with cryptic messages that only Lane could understand: “Integrate the urge”, “Feel fire first.”
He was clearly coming down from something (amphetamines or coke, maybe), with a look of madness in his eyes - pupils dilated, staring intently at the far wall, struggling to form words and yet remaining silent.
After his dad’s death, Lane’s mum kicked him out of the family home, and at the age of sixteen he was left with no one to look out for him except for me and a motley crew of disturbed twenty-year-old party animals he now lived with. These housemates popped so many pills, snorted so many lines that white dust gathered in small heaps on toilet lids, tabletops and kitchen counters all around the house. Lane couldn’t resist being sucked into the lifestyle. I liked the odd smoke myself, but I couldn’t accept my young friend messing around with the harder stuff.
My relationship to Lane’s housemates was strained at best – they didn’t like me, I didn’t like them. But somehow, I convinced them to organise an intervention to force Lane to clean up his act.
I went to get Lane who was now sitting in the kitchen on a rocking chair wearing Top Gun-style shades and a strange half-smile played across his lips. He looked like a psychopath waiting for a bus to take him to a darker side of town.
“You look a bit washed out, Lane,” I said, while making tea with four sugars, “things have got to change, don’t you think?”
Lane chuckled.
“What are you on, Lane? Because I know you’re on something.”
I gave him the tea and he cupped his hands around the mug, then blew on it. He remained quiet.
“You’re my best friend and I just want you to be alright, okay? Why don’t we go next door and watch the football?”
In the living room were Lane’s house mates: Dave, Anna and Graham. Anna was sitting on her boyfriend’s lap. He was one of Anna’s many men but apparently this guy - with his pencil thin moustache and dustbin lid headphones - was her main squeeze.
Before the intervention could even begin Anna got the giggle fits and snorted into her curry flavoured pot noodle, as I stood in the middle of the room trying to bring some order to proceedings. From the corner of my eye I saw Graham swallow something small and white.
Anna’s boyfriend said to me, “Get out of the way of the TV, Simon.”
“My name is Alan,” I said, “and this is important, I’m trying to save my friend’s life...”
“Simon,” said Graham, to me, “if you don’t let us watch the football, we’re going to remove your eyes with a pair of pliers.”
“Just sit down, Simon,” said Lane, lying on his back, gazing at the stucco ceiling, still wearing his shades.
So, I relented and watched the game. After it had finished everyone crashed, except Dave who rolled a joint so big it could set sail on choppy waters. He swept his shoulder length hair to one side and spoke clearly and deliberately to me.
“How long is your summer holiday? Three months, right? Right, I get no holiday, did you know that? I work nine hours a day every day except Sunday. This is my life. There is no hope for anything else. You think you know about me, about suffering, but let me enlighten you, you know squat. Maybe one day you’ll get it, but for now, please, steer the fuck away from me you entitled bastard.”
But I didn’t move. Lane certainly wasn’t going to. Instead, we waited for Dave to calm down and pass the giant spliff around. After his eyes turned dull and we sensed his will begin to sap he let us have our turn on the joint. We puffed away and then sank into a dense haze, dipping in and out of consciousness, forgetting everything. It was hard to argue this wasn’t the solution to everything.
I decided to sleep over in Lane’s room that night. I swept some junk aside with my foot, creating a circle of space in the centre of the room. I wanted to continue the intervention alone, knowing I was the only one who could help him.
“Skin up, Simon,” Lane said.
“You know I’m dry, and why the fuck is everyone calling me Simon?”
“Because you look like a Simon.”
“You’re supposed to be a mate, why are you being like this?”
“Things are easy for you; you’ve got it all.”
“That doesn’t explain why you act so weird and fucked up these days and I know you’re doing hard drugs. It’s about your parents isn’t it? If you want to talk about it...?”
“I’m warning you Alan, if you say another word...”
Dave banged on the paper-thin walls from his bedroom next door. Lane gobbled a pill and then tried to look innocent. But I decided to ignore it and maintain my silence - I realised there was nothing more I could do. For now, I had to accept defeat. So, I nestled in my small patch on the carpet, and gnawed away at a fingernail as my mood began to soar.
The tap in the shower room dripped and it sounded like thunder. I was convinced I had been spiked and was in no condition to help anyone. I told myself - just go with it, maybe you’ll like it. But instead, I disappeared through a hole in my mind, lost the ability to speak and was certain Lane and Dave were plotting to kill me. It was a Tuesday night.
Tim Frank’s short stories have been published over sixty times in journals including Able Muse, Bourbon Penn, Intrinsick, Menacing Hedge, Literally Stories, Eunoia Review, Maudlin House and The Fiction Pool. Tim Frank has been nominated for The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2020. He is the associate fiction editor for Able Muse Literary Journal.