Edward Aubyn - The Patrick Melrose Novels - Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk

He was amazed by the strength and smoothness of the heroin. His blood became as heavy as a sack of coins and he sank down appreciatively into his body, resolved again into a single substance after the catapulting exile of the cocaine.

‘Exactly,’ he whispered, ‘like moles … God, this is good smack.’ He closed his eyelids lingeringly.

‘It’s pure,’ said Pierre. ‘ Faîtes attention, c’est très fort. ’

‘Mm, I can tell.’

‘It’s medicine, man, medicine,’ Pierre reiterated.

‘Well, I’m completely cured,’ whispered Patrick with a private smile. Everything was going to be all right. A coal fire on a stormy night, rain that could not touch him beating against the windowpane. Streams made of smoke, and smoke that formed into shining pools. Thoughts shimmering on the borders of a languorous hallucination.

He scratched his nose and reopened his eyes. Yes, with the firm base provided by the heroin, he could play high notes of cocaine all night without cracking altogether.

But he’d have to be alone for that. With good drugs, solitude was not just bearable, it was indispensable. ‘It’s much more subtle than Persian smack,’ he croaked. ‘A gentle sustained curve … like a, like a polished tortoise shell.’ He closed his eyes again.

‘It’s the strongest smack in the world,’ said Pierre simply.

‘Ya,’ drawled Patrick, ‘it’s such a bore, one can hardly ever get it in England.’

‘You should come and live here.’

‘Good idea,’ said Patrick amiably. ‘By the way, what’s the time?’

‘One forty-seven.’

‘Gosh, I’d better go to bed,’ said Patrick, putting the syringes carefully into his inside pocket. ‘It’s been lovely seeing you again. I’ll be in touch very soon.’

‘OK,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m awake tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night.’

‘Perfect,’ said Patrick nodding.

He put on his jacket and overcoat. Pierre got up, undid the four security locks, opened the door, and let him out.

PATRICK SLUMPED BACK IN the chair. The tension was deleted from his chest. For a moment he fell quiet. But soon a new character installed itself in his body, forcing his shoulders back and his stomach out, and launching him into another bout of compulsive mimicry.

The Fat Man (pushing back the chair to accommodate his huge stomach): ‘I feel compelled to speak, sir, indeed I do. Compelled, sir, is a mild description of the obligation under which I am placed in this matter. My story is a simple one, the story of a man who loved not wisely but too well.’ (Wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.) ‘A man who ate not from greed, but from passion. Eating, sir – I do not attempt to disguise it – has been my life. Couched in the ruins of this old body are the traces of some of the most exquisite dishes ever cooked. When horses have collapsed beneath my bulk, their legs shattered or their lungs, flooded with their own blood, or I have been forced to renounce the fruitless struggle to intervene between the seat and the steering wheel of a motor car, I have consoled myself with the reflection that my weight has been won, and not merely “put on”. Naturally, I have dined in Les Bains and Les Baux, but I have also dined in Quito and Khartoum. And when the ferocious Yanomami offered me a dish of human flesh, I did not allow prudishness to prevent me from requesting a third helping. Indeed I did not, sir.’ (Smiles wistfully.)

Nanny (huffing and puffing): ‘Human flesh indeed! Whatever next? You always were a strange boy.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ screamed Patrick silently, as he paced across the faded green carpet and turned around abruptly.

Gary (raising his eyes to heaven with a charming little sigh): ‘My name’s Gary, I’ll be your waiter tonight. Today’s specials include a Dish of Human Flesh, and a sodium-free Frisson of Colombian Cocaine nestling on a bed of “Wild Baby” Chinese White Heroin.’

Pete Bloke: ‘Haven’t you got any Hovis, then?’

Mrs Bloke: ‘Yeah, we want Hovis.’

Hovis Voice-over (theme music from Coronation Street ): ‘It were grand when I were young. I’d go round t’ dealer’s, buy ’alf an ounce o’ coke and four grams o’ smack, order round a case o’ champagne from Berry Bros., take wench out ta Mirabelle, and still ’ave change from a farthing. Them were the days.’

He was dangerously out of control. Every thought or hint of a thought took on a personality stronger than his own. ‘Please, please, please make it stop,’ muttered Patrick, getting up and pacing about the room.

Mocking Echo: ‘Please, please, please make it stop.’

Nanny: ‘I know about the aristocracy and their filthy ways.’

Humpo Languid (laughing disarmingly): ‘What filthy ways, Nanny?’

Nanny: ‘Oh, no, you won’t find Nanny telling tales out of school. My lips are sealed. Whatever would Lady Deadwood think? Rolling stones gather no moss. You mark my words. You always were a strange boy.’

Mrs Garsington: ‘Who is in charge here? I wish to speak to the manager immediately.’

Dr McCoy: ‘It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.’

Captain Kirk (flicking open his communicator): ‘Beam us up, Scotty.’

Patrick opened the packet of heroin and, in too much of a hurry to make another fix, simply tipped some of it onto the glass which protected the surface of the table.

Indignant Eric (knowingly): ‘Oh, typical, faced with a problem: take more heroin. Basically, the ultimate self-perpetuating system.’

Pulling a banknote out of his pocket, Patrick sat down and stooped over the table.

Captain Languid: ‘I say, Sergeant, shut those fellows up, will you?’

Sergeant: ‘Don’t worry, sir, we’ll bring them under control. They’re nothing but a bunch of fuzzywuzzies, black-souled bastards, sir, never seen a Gatling in their miserable, godless lives, sir.’

Captain Languid: ‘Well done, Sergeant.’

Patrick sniffed up the powder, threw his head back, and inhaled deeply through his nose.

Sergeant: ‘Allow me to take the brunt of the impact, sir.’ (Groans, a spear lodged in his chest.)

Captain Languid: ‘Oh, thank you … um…’

Sergeant: ‘Wilson, sir.’

Captain Languid: ‘Yes, of course. Well done, Wilson.’

Sergeant: ‘Only wish I could do the same again, sir. But I’m sorry to say I’ve been fatally wounded, sir.’

Captain Languid: ‘Oh, dear. Well, get that wound seen to, Sergeant.’

Sergeant: ‘Thank you, sir, very kind of you. What a wonderful gentleman!’

Captain Languid: ‘And if the worst should happen, I’m sure we can get you some sort of posthumous gong. My uncle is the chap in charge of that sort of thing.’

Sergeant (sitting up and saluting, shouts): ‘Sir!’ (Sinking back.) ‘It’ll mean a lot to Mrs Wilson and the toddlers, poor little fatherless mites.’ (Groans.) ‘What … a … wonderful gentleman.’

George the Barman (polishing a glass meditatively): ‘Oh, yes, that Captain Languid, I remember him well. Used to come in here and always ask for nine oysters. Not half a dozen or a dozen, but nine. What a gentleman! They don’t make ’em like that anymore. I remember the Fat Man as well. Oh yes, not likely to forget him. We couldn’t have him in the bar towards the end, literally couldn’t fit him in. What a gentleman, though! One of the old school, didn’t go in for all this dieting, dear me, no.’

The Fat Man (standing in an especially enlarged dock at the Old Bailey): ‘It has indeed been my misfortune, sir, to live in an age of diets and regimens.’ (Wipes a tear from the corner of his eye.) ‘They call me the Fat Man, and I am fat enough to flatter myself that the epithet requires no explanation. I stand accused of unnatural appetites and an unnatural degree of appetite. Can I be blamed, sir, if I have filled my cup to the brim, if I have piled the plate of my life high with the Moules au Menthe Fraîches of experience (a dish to wake the dead, sir, a dish to charm a king!)? I have not been one of those timid waifs of modern life, I have not been a poor guest at the Feast. Dead men, sir, do not accept the challenge of the Menu Gastronomique at the Lapin Vert when they have scarcely swallowed the last mouthful of the Petit Déjeuner Médiéval at the Château de l’Enterrement. They do not then have themselves driven by ambulance (the natural transport of the bon viveur, sir, the carriage of a king!) to the Sac d’Argent to launch themselves with grim abandon down the Cresta Run of their Carte Royale.’ (The violinist from the Café Florian plays in the background.) ‘My last days, last days, sir, for I fear that my liver – oh, it has done me valiant service, but now it has grown tired and I have grown tired too; but enough of that – my last days have been clouded with calumny.’ (Sound of muffled sobbing in the court.) ‘But I do not regret the course, or rather the courses’ (sad little laugh) ‘I have taken in life, indeed I don’t.’ (Gathers all his dignity.) ‘I have eaten, and I have eaten bravely.’