Man of Ruin Read online

  My mouth dropped. I wanted nothing to do with the police. Doctors were one thing. I had expected she would at least try and figure out what was wrong, try and help me. But the police? Who was to say what they would do with me?

  “I’m not sure I want to do that.”

  “Perhaps at the same time we can also see if there is an institute that will take you today,” she said, ignoring my comment and giving me that concerned look again. “I am not sure that your situation really fits the bill for any I am aware of, but you certainly do require . . . help. Certainly not psychiatric care, nor palliative care . . . A hospital would certainly be useful, but on the other hand, your particular problem is rather difficult to accommodate.”

  “Please, Doctor,” I said, leaning forwards. “I don’t want to go to any of those places. I’m scared what will happen.”

  “I do sympathise.” She smiled at me. “But the more I think of it, the more it is clear to me. You simply have no choice. You said so yourself: you have caused damage already several times. The safest course of action would be to inform the authorities so that they are aware the damage is accidental and to place you in the proper care. If we don’t at least inform them, they might assume more malicious intentions and will probably be wasting resources on pointless investigations. In the meantime, I will also arrange for you to see a urologist. That seems like the obvious first step.”

  I took a deep breath and stared at the carpet. This was going to be a terrible time for me. I just knew.

  “I think I’ll just go and find a safe place, wait for that appointment,” I said. “I have an uncle in the country where I might stay.”

  I didn’t have any such uncle, of course, but I just felt the urgent need to get out of her office, away from her anatomical fascinations and the very real danger she would have me incarcerated. I suddenly hated myself for ever thinking a doctor was a good idea. Plus, I could feel my stomach rumbling. All this stress was making me hungrier than ever.

  “I really don’t think you should be going,” she said, frowning now. “We can work this out together.”

  “Nah . . .” I said, standing up.

  She sighed, biting her lip, a worried expression on her face.

  “Okay, well if you insist on leaving, I don’t suppose I can stop you. I must insist on informing the authorities though. I will give you one day to talk to them, since it will be much better coming from you, I believe. But if you have not done so in that time, I will have to give them a call myself. I really think it’s in your best interests to do it straight away.”

  Christ, I thought. Yeah, sure, my best interests. Of course.

  “I will also write you a sick note for work, if you would like.”

  “Alright, thanks, Doc,” I said, moving towards the door.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, still looking at me with concern. “Well, do be careful. Don’t do anything rash. Go and talk to your partner or your family, your parents, they should be there for you at a time like this. I will be in touch very soon.”

  “Yeah, sure, my parents,” I muttered to myself as I left her office.

  What a waste of a half-hour. My nerves were shot to hell, not to mention my faith in the health services and society in general. Not that I ever had any real faith in either. The receptionist gave me my sick note and I left that place none the wiser yet fearing I could soon be carted off to some “institution” or arrested by the police—or both.

  And what of the rest of the day? What should I do before anything else happened that would doubtless descend me further into an abyss of chaos? For once, I had a clear answer. I was hungry, and in times of trouble, there was only one answer: down the pub, get some proper eats, maybe even a bevvie.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE DAY THEREAFTER SPRAWLED ITSELF down further and further into a quagmire of indecision, indulgence and idiocy. I was paralysed by my predicament and all the difficult questions it raised for me—where to pee, how to live and, of course, what in the hell was going on with me to cause such an utterly ridiculous affliction? Truth be told, I was in shock, big shock, so I did the only thing I really knew how to do: I carried on as if nothing had happened. I didn’t want to call the police, it would be days until the urologist appointment, which I felt certain would be a complete waste of time, and I was ever fearful of hearing from the doc with a summons to check myself into some institution, or hearing from my landlord, or hearing news about Martin, or indeed from any one of my mates who had doubtless now spoken to James. I dreaded the day I’d be splashed all over the papers, named the acid-peeing freak of Britain, or dragged away to be tested on like some kind of human lab rat.

  So I took myself down to the Duke of Marlborough and got settled in for lunch and an afternoon of eating, self-pity and televised sports. My first choice would have been a fast food joint, of course, but it was much harder to sit for any length of time and to fade into the background in such places. I had a vague idea that I would take it easy on the drink so as to avoid the need for too many toilet visits, but that was a silly thing to expect when spending more than ten seconds in a pub.

  The Marlborough was a nice, largish establishment with a proper greasy kitchen that laid on all the old favourites in no time flat. Almost fast food, to be honest. Located just out of the centre of town, it was still lively but thankfully free of the usual hot-headed young idiots and alcoholic old men who always seemed to be drawn to the watering holes in the nasty middle of the city. The Marlborough was more of a vaguely civilised, country-gentrified sort of a place, full of fake bookshelves, old-fashioned beer mugs, bedpans and nick-nacks hanging from the ceiling and all that. A place for culture wannabes and families who liked to drink with their kids around. Not really for me, but the food was what I went for.

  I ordered a cheeseburger, large fries, onion rings and Greek salad from the bored-looking, tall, spindly, floppy-haired student serving at the bar. I was thinking to forego the drink, as mentioned, but as soon as I entered the place and saw the hive of activity that was the bar, smelled the fruity, warm beer smells, that was a lost cause. I ordered a pint of Guinness and watched with envy as he poured me my pint, a lack of fat on his lean frame that I had never and would never know.

  I didn’t want to think, not about anything, so I found a little table by a window with a view of the TV. I settled in to relax, hoping the food and the general Saturday ambience would chill me out and that I might feel like myself again. If I could only just get some inner peace and a full belly, I entertained the vague hope that things would somehow become clear and I would know exactly what to do—or at least have the courage to figure out some viable course of action for myself that didn’t involve madness, mayhem or being locked up.

  The food came, accompanied by a wonderful grilled charcoal aroma, and I devoured it greedily. It seemed as if I hadn’t eaten for days.

  You’re going through one of life’s big trials, I told myself, thinking of my long-dead granddad who used to say the same words every time I was denied a lollipop or a trip to the swimming pool by my parents. It’s no surprise you’re all of a bother. Anyone in your position would be nothing but tizz and wizz.

  Whenever I eat, it’s a grand experience, as if I’m the only person in the universe. It’s just me and my plate and silence all around until that lovely plate is clean empty and I can feel the magic glow and satisfaction of a well-eaten meal. I polished that beauty of a cheeseburger off and it was no different this time, allowing me to gently ease myself back into the real world and all the bothersome people in it. I was pleased to find those around me were safely ignoring me, blabbing away to each other loudly as I sat there and felt invisible among them all, just chilling and sipping my Guinness.

  I glanced at the TV hanging up on the wall, the commentators gabbing for their lives, getting all excited about twenty-two men scampering about on a field and showing off their latest hairstyles.

  Well, Dave, I said to myself. What’s a guy to do when he can’t even go t
o the loo?

  I chuckled to myself at the unintended rhyme. It amused me that I had unwittingly made light of my troubles. I found myself launching into more silly rhymes to pass the time.

  Where’s a bloke to pee when his wee brings down trees?

  There’s a wrinkle in my crinkle ’cos I can’t even go for a tinkle.

  Dave’s bladder is madder and badder than the giant adder who . . . I struggled with this one but settled on had-her.

  Please may I be excused. I know it sounds funny but—

  Just then my phone started ringing. A jolly good thing too, since the utter crapness of my limericks was starting to have the opposite intended effect and depress me.

  *****

  “Hello?” I said cautiously, recognising the number and dreading what was coming.

  “What do you think you’re playing at?” said a low, rumbling voice. My father. A voice I’d not heard for at least a year and which would cause me shudders till my dying day.

  “Hi, Dad, how are you?”

  “I’m fine thanks, and so’s your mother.”

  He always said that, as if I wouldn’t ask after her given half the chance.

  “Well,” he laughed to himself, “we were fine, until all this nonsense started.”

  “Nonsense?”

  I was genuinely in the dark. He couldn’t possibly know anything that had been happening, could he?

  “Yes, nonsense. Your bloody landlord’s been at me for money. Says you ruined your toilet, and the ones for several floors beneath. What you been doing? Dropping bombs?”

  This was most unwelcome. Why had the landlord called my father? Why not me? Why were they suddenly now accusing me? Yes, of course it was my fault, but how could he be so sure?

  “I can practically hear your little mind working,” said Dad, again with that little laugh. “You said you were in Guildford or someplace, but someone saw you leaving this morning. And you haven’t been back since. My David is guilty as hell for sure, I said. And now your bloody landlord wants to hit poor muggins here for the money!”

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “Yeah, too right! Not that you’d give a toss, but your mother and I’ve been saving up for a nice little cruise. This’ll put quite some dent into that sweet dream, I can tell you.”

  “Oh,” I said meekly.

  “Is that all you can say? ‘Oh’?” He mocked my voice.

  “How much?” I said, still whispering.

  Dad laughed. “More than you can bloody afford, I’m sure.”

  I coughed, hating him. “How bloody much, Dad?”

  I could hear him considering his answer. I imagined Mum listening in, them both huddled by the phone, steeling themselves.

  “Twenty grand,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Twenty flipping grand! Why do you think he called me, eh? He knows you can’t afford that. And he’s right, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t pay! It wasn’t my fault!”

  “Doesn’t matter. We have to. Got our flipping names on your rental agreement, haven’t we? Someone has to pay. You or us. Looks like it’s going to be us making the sacrifices again, being responsible again. Just wanted to let you know, you rotten little—”

  I put the phone on the table, face down. I was sweating all over, my nails digging into the soft wood. I noticed the barman watching me from the corner of his eye. I took a deep breath, imagining what my parents were doing now: enjoying being right about me again, most likely. As a couple they weren’t bad, but as parents they were almost stereotypically bloody awful.

  I had to take control. I grabbed the half-finished pint, downed it and put the glass back down hard onto the tabletop.

  Sod it, I thought. Sod them.

  I would have thought some more about it too, only I realised that I needed to pee.

  *****

  I stumbled out into an afternoon of bright winter sunshine. I looked left and right. I decided on left, since I’d never done anything right in my life. I was in a rotten mood now to boot.

  For once I got a stroke of luck. The Marlborough was located in a residential area, but only a few steps down in my chosen direction was a small car park, which I guess the pub kept for staff and punters who could control their levels of drinking. At the back of this was an enclosed section with some wheelie bins and a horrible little rubbish-littered green which led to a wall with some trees that obscured the flats beyond. Perfect for fly-tipping and the occasional toxic pee.

  Positioning myself behind the last wheelie bin, facing towards the green and the wall, I took a quick look all around to make sure no one was looking. Then I unzipped.

  Initially, it was far less spectacular than previous escapades. I had grown to expect the luminous jade lustre, and the grass fizzled and the ground underneath welled away just as it had in the park. I aimed for the little bits of rubbish, the cans, crisp packets, bottles and all that. They all melted, spewing forth their last gasp of existence in the form of a pungent, grey-green plasticky smoke before joining the rest of the urine-melted mix deep down in the earth’s muck.

  “Oy!”

  The shout gave me a shock, for it had come from literally right behind me. I turned, and where once there had been nothing but a wheelie bin, there was now the head and shoulders of a dirty, bearded fellow in a ripped-up brown suit jacket and grimy T-shirt. He stood half-in, half-out of the very same wheelie bin directly behind me.

  “What the bloody hell—” he started to say, for I’d turned too quickly. My weeing had not finished, and I was now urinating directly onto his wheelie bin and the stupid thing was reacting as if it had been hit by a full-frontal assault, shuddering and faltering, clanking down onto the ground like an old man who’s had his walking stick kicked away from him.

  “Aarrggh!” the poor bloke screamed, falling with his abode as it crashed down towards me. I jumped back so as not to be clattered by it, slipping over in the grass, falling back onto my behind with a thump. The tramp himself came tumbling out of the now-collapsed wheelie bin and straight into the ruined, sludgy green area of mud that my godforsaken wee had carved out of the ground.

  “Iiiieeeaaarrrggghhh!” He let out an ungodly, high-pitched scream as if he was being burned alive.

  I knew I was in big trouble.

  He had landed face-first, raising his arms and putting his hands down onto the ground to lift himself up. He screamed again. As he raised his face, I saw that more than half of it was covered in toxic green pee-infused mud. His beard was frazzled, dirty threads dropping off and disappearing in little tufts of smoke, his face turning a dark purply red where the mud was. He wiped at his cheeks furiously, then looked at his hands, continuing to scream like a man on fire. I could see that those hands were also turning a dark shade of red, scarred by the uriney acid.

  “I’m sorry!” I cried.

  He continued to scream, letting his hands go limp as the skin burned off, looking at me with utter terror in his mad eyes. He had just been rudely awakened, and I could not think of a worse way to be interrupted from sleep. I watched in horror as he closed one eye, the one on the burnt side of his face, the skin literally cauterizing itself around the eyeball, bubbling itself shut.

  “Can’t see!” he cried. “Hurting, hurting, hurting!”

  “Get away from there!”

  I scrambled to my feet, pulling him up from under his shoulders and getting an almighty whiff of mould and body odour and strong alcohol in the process.

  “What were you doing sleeping in that bin?” I said, dragging his frighteningly limp body across the rubbish-littered grass to a corner that was safe from the harm of my awful excretions.

  He lay down where I put him. He was moaning, panting and wheezing horribly.

  “Look at you,” I said. “What am I supposed to do with you now, eh?”

  Half his face was melted, a squidgy mass of pulpy raw red skin matter. His whole body shuddered. I imagined the pain he was going through and gave up. Not only had he
been sleeping in a bin, piss poor and probably kicked and spat at on a regular basis, but now this. It was too much.

  “Poor sod,” I said. “Why did you have to shock me like that? You should’ve known better! You saw it, didn’t you? Saw what I was doing . . .”

  I sank to my knees next to his shuddering body, extremely fed up to say the least.

  I grabbed him by the lapels.

  “How do you think I feel?!”

  Then he touched my hand with rough-hewn and bloodied fingers, looking straight at me with his one remaining, just-about-functioning blood-shot eye.

  “What’re you doing, boy?” he rasped. “Get me some flippin’ help, would you?!”

  *****

  “I need an ambulance—now!” I shouted into my phone.

  There was a note of panic in my voice that I couldn’t recall ever hearing, not since perhaps the first time the ball had hurtled to me out in the field when I was a nipper playing in the local cricket team. “Dad, dad!” I had screamed to my watching father, meaning to ask what I should do, while the ball bounced harmlessly past me to a collective sigh of disappointment from the rest of the team.

  “Alright, sir,” said the ridiculously calm voice on the other end of the line. “We’re sending a vehicle now to your current location. Can you please give me some details of the emergency?”

  I had to answer carefully now. To make matters worse, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered, some doubtless from the pub, others from the neighbourhood who had overheard the screams. They looked with disgust at the whimpering, mud-stained, burned-out mess of a man lying there. Some glanced at me suspiciously.

  “I’m not sure.” I laid down the phone, trying to ignore those around me. “It looks like some kind of acid burn. To the face and hands, as far as I can see. He’s in a bad way. Please, come quickly!”

  “Alright, sir. Don’t worry. We’re on our way.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said breathlessly.