Читать книгу Execution Plan - Patrick Thompson - Страница 13

That afternoon we got ridiculously drunk. I don’t remember much about it. I remember abandoning the burger van halfway down Broad Street in Birmingham. Dermot had, as he’d promised, dumped the deep-fat fryer on the pavement at the business park. We’d left it there, leaking grease and steaming.

‘Off we fucking go then,’ said Dermot, scampering gleefully off into the afternoon crowd. We had a few in the first open bar we came to.

After that my memory skips like a vinyl record. I remember a staircase leading down to some toilets far beneath a dingy club. I remember being brightly sick over a flashing fruit machine. I remember it paying out three jackpots in a row in response.

I remember being in a bathroom with a long mirror of polished metal, Dermot beside me, holding my hand out. His small hands were too strong to resist, like the rest of him.

‘You can touch it,’ he said, meaning the mirror. ‘You can touch it.’

Our blurred reflections looked back at us, mine terrified, his delighted.

‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Touch it.’

A pair of post-punk punks – all polychromatic hair dye and studded leather – arrived in time to hear that. They moved to flank us.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Dermot.

‘Pair of queers in the bog,’ said one. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Where?’ asked Dermot, looking around theatrically.

Something about him made them leave. He looked for a moment like a werewolf, without any transformation. He was suddenly all violence. They backed off, hands up and palms forward. If they’d been dogs they’d have rolled over. The door dragged itself shut behind them.

‘Pair of cunts,’ he said. ‘Not going to touch the mirror, then? Come on. More drinks.’

We had more drinks. How do you become afraid of mirrors? Easily. Here’s how it happened for me.