London Town

         ‘I’ve been having the same dream for days. It’s awful.’
         ‘So what happens?’
         ‘I’m in a dirty old train carriage, moving through some German forest. Or maybe it’s a Vietnamese forest. I can’t really tell, all I know is that it’s hot and cramped. I’m sitting on the rickety floor of this carriage, surrounded by people dressed in army gear. There’s some kind of ancient rifle strapped to my back and a belt of ammo around my shoulder. All of a sudden, we enter this clearing, and there’s a little dirt track leading up a hill. The train stops, and we all pile out. Some of the soldiers take positions at the bottom of the dirt road, on either side. Everyone else seems to be milling around, unsure of what to do. Suddenly everything goes quiet, and a figure in grey appears at the top of the hill, moving down towards us with a heavy limp. The sentries on the road immediately take aim, training there rifles on him. As it comes closer, I see that it’s an old man, his hands bound behind his back. There’s blindfold tied around his face. To my surprise, he reaches the column of sentries and runs straight through; no bullets are fired. Everyone now has their rifles on him, but he just keeps limping forwards. I keep watching him as he comes closer and closer to me. There’s some kind of white froth on his lips and his tongue keeps falling out of his mouth. All of sudden I find my hands bringing my rifle to bear, training it at his face. He scrapes himself along the gravel, raising dead dust, shrouding us, until his forehead is touching the barrel of the gun. With trembling fingers, he unties the blood-soaked blindfold – it drops away, revealing two deformed sockets, red and crusty with scar tissue.’
         
         ‘Damn. You really got into that at the end, man. Kinda freaking me out.’
         ‘When I talk about the dream, I swear to God it’s like I’m dreaming it again.’
         ‘Mm-hmm. So I’m guessing you end up shooting him?’
         ‘Yeah…but get this. Just before I shoot him, he says something. It’s like a poem, or part of a song, or something like that. It goes:

‘And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep - while I weep!’

         Silence. I look into his eyes. We’re separated by a pane of glass. He looks older, scruffier – the prison uniform doesn’t suit him.
         ‘So what do you think it means?’
         I pause. Memories flood me.
         ‘Mate. I can’t help you.’
         ‘Aw thanks man. Thanks a lot.’

******

         Eight months ago, before everyone left to go off to Quebec, or to go off to Los Angeles, or to go off to Japan, or to go off to wherever James went, something happened between my friends and I which I have deemed the most important moment of my life. Much of the drama that plagued our final two years of school began in the Duke of Hamilton, the posh little Hampstead pub where we would sit every Saturday evening, drinking till we were jolly enough to hit up Leicester Square. So it was with this particular piece of trouble. It happened that it was Edmund’s last night. He was supposed to take the train up to Keble College, Oxford, to be lost in a world of astrophysics and stuck-uppery.

         But before I go any further, I ought to explain something that my father told me when I turned sixteen, which has had huge influence upon all subsequent decisions I have made. He said, ‘Dylan, I’ve always liked the odd joke, and I’m partial to telling a few myself. And there’s no shame in laughing at your friends, or even at yourself.’ Then he took me by the shoulders. ‘But never, under any circumstances, tolerate a joke at the expense of this family. Son, never let anyone – ever – talk disparagingly about our family.’ The raw power and expression in his voice has never left my memory, and to this day, I am unable to swallow any kind of jest referring to a family member. To my dismay, however, I found that the general banter between my friends often, now that I had to watch out for it, turned towards family members. I started getting into fights over the pettiest of insults. One of these incidents involved an acquaintance, of whom I was becoming very fond, making a comment about my younger sister while we were eating lunch – before anyone could stop me I had clubbed him with my tray, breaking his nose.

         My friends tried various methods of erasing the ‘damage’ my father had done to me. Edmund tried to convince me that physically attacking people who insult those who you care about was a medieval solution; I argued that maybe some medieval values, such as honor and chivalry, were to be prized. Myles forced me into a fight with a giant of a man, convinced that the beating I would receive would scare me into submission. I ended up with mild concussion and a horribly painful sense of righteous anger. James started attacking me at random intervals during conversation, in an attempt to expose the irrationality of my anger – my commitment to whitening the reputation of my family was completely unaffected by all of this.

         I pride myself on being an extremely focused person. When I put my mind to something, I expect to succeed, and I expect others to recognize my efforts. By the end of our last year of school, my friends accepted this admittedly somewhat strange part of my personality, even when it came to ‘defending my family’s honor’. 


******

         Five young men sat outside the Duke of Hamilton pub, sipping their second round of brews. It was a crisp September evening; the mild summer air had been evicted by the onset of autumn. None of the boys seemed to be affected by the cold. Two were in the midst of a heated argument, their voices barely controlled hisses. They were aware, from past experience, that if their argument turned into a shouting match they would be forced to abandon their drinks and seats. Another two were listening intently, every now and then nodding sagely, or laughing soundlessly and shaking their heads. The fifth, a dark, hulking specimen of an eighteen year-old, sat with his head propped against a windowsill, his eyes focused on the cloudy night sky.

         ‘All that I’m saying is, how am I supposed to know what is and what isn’t a stupid question, until I’ve asked that question and learned the answer?’ The boy’s voice carried a heavy overtone of patronizing impatience.
         ‘I’m not saying that you can’t ask questions James!’ The other boy paused and took a breath, calming himself. ‘All I’m saying is, if you ask a question, are told the answer, and realize that it was a question which you could have easily answered yourself, we should be free to fucking make fun of you!’ The two boys either side chuckled their agreement. As always, there was an edge of menace to the argument. At any moment, as had happened many times before, one of the boys’ tempers would frizzle away into nothing and a full blown fight would break out.
         The dark-looking boy, sensing that James would soon produce an outburst that they would all regret, sat up and said, ‘I think we can all agree that we need a few more drinks.’
         James looked mutinously at the other three. His eyes were almost black and noticeably small compared to his chubby features. ‘Don’t start about asking stupid questions, Dylan. We’ve all seen the damage your ridiculous ideas can do.’ He pushed himself up from the table and opened the door to the pub. ‘Next round’s on me.’

         Two rounds later, the boys walked out of Tottenham Court Road station. Edmund, the dark looking boy, was unaffected by the drink. He strolled cheerfully ahead. The four others followed, the earlier tension forgotten. Their voices were embarrassingly loud, and full of mirth. The flashing lights of London town buzzed around them. A giant billboard playing a Coca-Cola advert towered ominously over the walkway, like Dr. Eckleberg. Here and there groups of perilously drunk teenage girls appeared, giggling and tripping their way to the next club. Costumed employees weaved amongst the throng, shoving fliers into faces – one got hopeless entangled with a group of middle-aged men posing with two scantily clad girls, while a scraggily-dressed bum waited with the camera. Edmund shivered as a trill of excitement swept through him. This is what life in London really was about: debauchery; extravagant financial gestures; the total bombardment of the senses. His friends sped to catch him up, their boisterous voices carrying into the night that was alive with noise and lights.

******

         It was impossible to hear anything. A fast, pounding baseline cut across all conversation – like someone repeatedly slapping you in the face. Fractured speech could be picked up around the bar; outbursts of anger or excitement, sudden greetings. But the muffler of music soon settled back into place, drowning out civilization. The sweat-bathed crowd swarmed and writhed like ants crawling over a carcass. Women held that glint in their eyes, that predatory glint that said less than words needed to – yet so much more. Within that melee, Dylan fought a grizzly looking old man, their frenzied movements barely noticed inside the mass of heaving bodies. The old man, taller and by far the heavier, took a messy right to the chin, and, rolling with the punch, grabbed Dylan by the collar of his shirt. Wrenching his opponent towards him, he smashed forehead into nose, feeling a crunch of breaking bone and a warm rush of blood. Dylan’s struggling instantly weakened. Still furious, the man threw Dylan’s limp frame against the counter of the bar, watching as he slumped horribly to the ground, his eyes glazed.

         The blood streaming from Dylan’s nose began to leak onto the floor, and finally people began to notice the prone form lying in their midst. A woman, who had witnessed the final blow, let out an ear piercing scream. Another, an expression of horror on her face, grabbed the old man. ‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ People began to back away from the man, their eyes accusing and shocked.
         ‘He started with me, I’m telling ya!’ the man yelled, infuriated. ‘He threw a punch at me. That was self-defense!’
         
         Across the bar, a dark-looking boy noticed the commotion. He moved swiftly through the crowded dance-floor. As he rounded the corner of the bar, he saw Dylan’s unconscious form, blood-streaked and glassy-eyed.
         ‘Who the fuck did this!’ he bellowed, his voice commanding a sudden silence. Unnerved by the authority of this newcomer, the offender answered, his confidence wavering. ‘He threw a punch at me!’
         
         Before he could utter another word, Edmund laid into the man, his right fist bludgeoning like a hammer. The huge old man staggered backwards, stunned. Another blow sent him crashing to the floor. Edmund turned and lifted up the limp body of his friend, wiping blood away from his nose and mouth. Dylan was still obviously breathing, probably in no real harm. Clearing a path, Edmund began to call for his friends. As he mounted the stairs to the exit, he heard a loud smash of breaking glass, and then screams behind him. Turning, he saw the old man hand lash out, and caught the broken bottle full in the face. Pain exploded in his right eye and cheek. He dropped, pole-axed, and Dylan’s body slipped from his grasp. His hands clutched at his ruined eye, his mind seething with agony.

******

         We were racing along the along Tottenham Court Road, the engine of the stolen Cayenne humming gloriously. My head still pounded, and every heartbeat sent stinging pain into the bridge of my nose, threatening to blind me. All the windows were open and the wind whipped into us. Exhilarating. Edmund was driving like a maniac, not the least bit impeded by the shirt tied hastily around the right side of his face. The blue Ford Focus just up ahead swerved left to avoid a line of parked cars, and Edmund followed, his reactions like an animal’s. His face was a mask of gritting pain and anger. In the back seat, James, Myles and Malcolm were screaming warnings, bellowing for people to clear the road. James’ eyes were blotchy and his face was lined with tears. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the grand theft auto. Edmund, oblivious, kept driving, pushing on the accelerator, closing the gap between us and the man who said he bet my mother ‘fucked boys like she was the village bicycle.’
         ‘Edmund – please! Edmund!’ James yelled, his voice shaking. ‘We might kill somebody! Please stop it!’
         ‘I am going to kill somebody,’ Edmund said after a pause, his voice low. He pushed harder on the acceleration and the hum of the engine roared in response.

         Up ahead, the Focus’ breaks screeched and the car swerved violently left, careening wildly over the sidewalk, before disappearing down an empty alleyway. Edmund pulled the same move, throwing us suddenly against the windows. As we turned, I saw the old man standing in front of abandoned car, an old broom in his hands.
         ‘I phoned the police!’ he shouted, his voice trembling. ‘Stay away from me! That boy attacked me!’
         Edmund threw open the left-side door. I turned the key and killed the ignition. Looking behind me, I saw a crowd of people watching from the edge of the alleyway.
         ‘You ruined my fucking face!’ Edmund screamed, walking towards the old man. There was a madness in his voice I’d never heard before. The old man moved slowly backwards, still brandishing the broom, clinging to it for dear life.
         ‘What are you gonna do, boy? Kill me? The police are on their way! There’s people takin’ pictures of this right now!’ I looked back and, sure enough amongst the crowd several camera phones were pointed directly down the alleyway. To this day, it still amazes me that not one of those people had the guts to intervene.

         Realizing he would have to fight, the old man swung the broom as Edmund closed in. Edmund blocked the swing with his arm, and grabbed the handle, dragging the man into his body. Enclosing his arms, Edmund lifted the man and twisted, and both of them fell to the ground. There was a brutal crack as the old man’s head bounced off the pavement. Edmund raised his right arm and pounded it into the old man’s mouth, breaking teeth and mutilating his upper lip.
         ‘Edmund!’ I called. ‘Edmund, that’s enough!’
         He landed a left, splintering the man’s nose.
         ‘Edmund we have to get out of here!’ I started to run towards them.
         Another right-left combo. The man was clearly unconscious, and his face was a mess. His eyes were a bloody pulp.
         I sprinted the last few meters, throwing my whole weight against Edmund. He struggled powerfully against me, quickly pushing me off and moving back towards the man. As I tried to pull him away, I saw Myles and Malcolm thud into him, their combined weight bringing him backwards.  He thrashed wildly as we dragged him back to the stolen car, where James was waiting in the driver’s seat.

         There was a dream-like quality to what was happening. In a macabre tableau, the old man lay in the middle of the alleyway, unmoving, his face broken. The crowd of people moved aside as we backed out onto the main road. They watched us, like the walking dead, some through blind eyes, some through distorted camera lenses. Why had they just stood there? Why were they letting us pass now? Sirens wailed in the distance, and the flickering lights of London town spilled around us once more, exposing us, judging us.

         James was crying as we sped off down the M1. Myles and Malcolm were talking quietly, furiously, about our options. I was looking at Edmund, who was staring up at the cloudy sky. ‘James,’ he said, his voice cool and soft. ‘We have to stop. We need to drink this away. I don’t want to remember this.’
         They all drank. They drank, threw up, and kept drinking. Finally, when they were all passed out, I allowed myself one bottle.

         There was a trial. It lasted just one week. Edmund declined to be represented and pleaded guilty to one count of manslaughter. By cutting himself off from the trial and from the world, he still doesn’t know the full story. He tells me he’s gotten into poetry. Writing some kind of essay about ‘Poe and the Darker Side of Human Nature.’

         The Duke of Hamilton closed down a few months ago. I attended the closing drinks night. I drank to the adventures we had. I drank to the sanctity of my family. I drank to chivalry, to friendship. To Edmund. But most of all, I drank to sinful London town.