The Ascendant

Chapter Fifty-Six

Squinting through the warm sunshine, Iain and I walked along, comparing notes on our muscular development and dwindling patches of fat. We had endured a typically gruelling Saturday morning session at the gym, and were enjoying the rush of endorphins which always followed a really punishing workout. For my own part, I was delighted with the new shape my body was taking; lean and angular, my clothes hung on me as they would a shop window mannequin. The feel good factor has high, as Iain took the opportunity to extol the virtues of healthy living and disciplined drug-taking, as a substitute for fat-inducing beer binges.

‘Speed and coke are obviously both good but they tend to give me an unquenchable thirst, which can be a wee bit dangerous. Alright, it’s a laugh but fifteen pints later and you’ve lost all the benefits of doing the exercise in the first place.’

‘That does seem self-defeating,’ I concurred, feeling my hamstrings stretch and flex as we walked up the hill.

‘Quite. My recommendation to all dedicated health freaks is simple, cheap and effective: take ecstasy. Ye cannae get pished on it so there’s no point in even trying, and ye end up burning off even more calories when you’re high on it because of the rush it gives yeh.’

‘Double whammy. So that’s it Iain, no beer.’

‘Beer in moderation Ben, but if you want a washboard stomach then the vital ingredient has to be a regular and sensible intake of ecstasy.’

I nodded along, pretending that I knew what he was talking about. I was a beer and ganja man really, and, if my recent coke experience was anything to go by, (shitfaced, lain in bed, staring at the ceiling and gnawing through my pulped cheeks until I eventually gave up on the idea of sleep at about 8am) then chemicals offered no solutions that I was aware of. Still, after nearly three months in the house I remained eager to please, and listening to Iain’s well meaning and knowledgeable dietary tips was a welcome diversion from the grim, humiliating reality which awaited me next week.

I shuffled through my trouser pockets for my keys, rattled them out and let us both into the house. The cleaner, a young Philippine woman who got the job through Iain, was polishing the banister while loudly singing along with whatever happened to be blaring through her headphones. ‘We are yang, we are freeeee, we have teeeeeth, nice and cleeeaan….’ We went through to the sanctity of the living room and sat down to the carefree delights of Saturday morning TV. Iain rolled a joint as I read the newspaper, my attention flitting between the Spice Girls on the TV - I quite liked the “Posh” one - and the gossip in the paper about the forthcoming Aintree race meeting, especially focusing on “the housewives’ favourite”, The Grand National.

‘Not an ideal drug, either in terms of the calorie intake following an attack of the dreaded munchies, or indeed because of the reduced lung capacity and cardiovascular output,’ he said, holding the joint out to me. ‘Still, it does the job. Who do yeh fancy for the Grand National next week Benny boy?’

‘No Retreat,’ I replied, turning and rubbing the tip of the joint against the rim of the ash tray. ‘A good jumper with plenty of stamina; it’s got as good a chance as any.’

Iain sat up. ‘I never knew you were a horse racing man Ben.’

I looked at Iain, pulling sharply on the joint. ‘I used to be,’ I replied, sort of holding my breath to sort of keep the smoke in, ‘but it’s a losers game. I gave it up years ago.’

‘Well, well, well. So we have an expert punter in the house. Could be useful. No Retreat. Good stamina. That sounds like a hot tip if ever I’ve heard one.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. But it might be worth fifty pee each way.’

‘Aye, of somebody else’s money by the sounds of it. Yeh don’t sound too sure of yersen there Benny boy. I fancy a chockie bickie, have we got any in?’

After the hectic expenditure of energy this morning, the afternoon cruised along to a theme of sleep and sloth. Two became five, as Greek, Joe and Joe’s new Spanish pal Luis surfaced, sampled one of Iain’s potent Thai concoctions, and promptly crashed out. Meanwhile, Iain just kept rolling and munching, firstly working his way through a packet of chocolate biscuits, then devouring a couple of packets of pickled onion Monster Munch, which were hastily chased down his gullet by a tin of pineapple chunks. He was currently rooting through the kitchen cabinets in search of another tin.

‘None left,’ he said, flopping down into the armchair and pulling his makeshift rolling mat (a copy of Big Ones Magazine) back onto his lap and flicking out a king size Rizla from the stash tin which sat upon it. ‘I still fancy eating something but I can’t quite …’, he trailed off, reverting his attention to his so far faultless rolling technique. Joe was laid out on the sofa, eyes shut and head cradled on Luis’s lap. Luis, meanwhile, was looking furtively around the room, as if he were searching for some concealed demons, but as there was no immediate threat of him losing it completely, I just left him to it. With the rapid onset of paralysis working its way up through my legs and torso, and into my arms, neck and face, I had plenty of problems of my own. Only Greek seemed to be in control of her senses and sanity, although under closer scrutiny I noticed she was mumbling at the TV remote controller and flicking impatiently between MTV and VH1.

Despite my obvious inactivity, the symptoms were not helping me relax or prepare my mind for my forthcoming week at work, when I would attempt to make up the three or four lengths I needed to snatch victory at the finishing post. I’ll bet Dawn Run didn’t feel like this as he took that last fence years earlier, seemingly beaten and breathless; the odds against him lengthening faster than a necrophiliac’s knob in a funeral director’s storeroom. But Dawn Run came back because he was an exceptional thoroughbred; maybe my odds were longer still ...

There was reason to be optimistic anyway, while the day was still young and the dazzlingly bright sun shone through the bay window, lightening the entire room: big, airy and smoky, minimalist and comfortable in character. Home.

Greek had also settled on a movie channel, Joe was cooing and gurgling back to life, bringing Luis back from whatever dark hole he had been exploring, as well. Iain had found a dusty, faded looking tin of fruit salad, and my phone was ringing: it was Dawn. Time to compose myself: clear throat, clearish mind, best behaviour, get some feeling and movement back into those fingers. Click OK. Say 'Hello.'

Of course, my unresponsiveness and tendency to go off at a tangent by answering imaginary questions meant that my cover was quickly blown but Dawn was happy and cool about it; she was heading back home after giving her credit cards another pulverising all afternoon, this time in the trendy boutiques of Hampstead High Street. New shoes, apparently. Three pairs, plus another suit for work. Fair play to her I thought, it was a better investment than fifty pee each way on No Retreat, even with somebody else’s money.

I sat distractedly marking each of the horses I fancied for the afternoon, curious to find out if I still had it, or rather to confirm I still didn’t. The temptation to dip my toe into the pond was still there, as I guessed it always would be, like an alcoholic, reformed smoker or drug addict. Except I was never really addicted to gambling. Not really. It was just that I didn’t have the money to gamble and live from day-to-day. A couple of quid wouldn’t hurt, just as an accumulator, a bet to nothing: in the unlikely event of it coming in then it would pay out handsomely; if it didn’t come in then what difference would a couple of quid make?

I closed the newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table. Those thoughts could not help me now. Revisiting my dark and petty past could bring only pain, disappointment, anguish and more pain. I had set out on this quest as a means of avoidance and to an end of excitement and betterment, not to rediscover bad habits. I grabbed Iain’s copy of Big Ones Magazine and slit open a Marlboro, dropping its contents onto a Rizla. Whatever the outcome of the forthcoming week in the office, these three months had provided me with some wonderful experiences. Whenever I may come to look back upon these times I would not need the rosy tint of nostalgia to appreciate their quality: I knew I had it good, better than I ever imagined, and I was desperate to indulge myself further.

Breaking the weed up in my hands and sprinkling it over the tobacco, I knew too, that I had played my last card against the inscrutable Hobbs. I would have to wait until Friday, judgment day, to find out if we were counting aces high or low.