Sooner than Now

S O O N E R T H AN N O W
Zachary Colbert

















The End.

Life's what happens when you're waiting. Waiting in queues, waiting for people, waiting for trains and planes. Right now mine’s the latter. Gatwick Airport. North Terminal. 6.14am. My head’s throbbing. It feels like the dancefloor of Fabric after a heavy weekend. Two cracked ribs constantly ache as a dull, painful reminder of everything, until we try to turn too quickly and it switches to a sharp spiteful pang of agony making me wince uncontrollably. I can’t stop tonguing the loose tooth in the back of my mouth. A pair of wonky Aviators hide my black eye. I did my best to get the swelling down with frozen peas and we're not ashamed to say the worst bruising is covered with her foundation. A straw hat hides the six stitches in the back of my head where we hit the curb. I’m a train wreck. I scroll mindlessly through my iPod menu. Select Bloc Party's "Helicopter" and mouth along to the words “are you hoping for a miracle?” We’re a bomb site. Our own little warzone. A puppet falling apart. I’m never going to get through security like this. I pray. I don't know who to. I’m sipping a bitter Cafe Nero crappuccino and staring at a glossy holiday brochure depicting a white sandy beach with crystal clear waters and perfect palm trees. Someone's graffitied over the original tag line so it now reads "Wish you wereNT here." And I'm trying to figure out how we got here. I know how we got here but at what point did it all go so wrong? Maybe I’ve always been destined for a desperate escape. Maybe not. Either way, the catalyst for our current predicament was probably The Beard's freshers party.

Chapter 1.

I get to the house party on the Old Steine just before 1am and a deviant green glow baths the single-speed bikes lined up outside. It takes 5 minutes for someone to hear the bell and buzz me up.
The door’s been left on the latch and it swings open effortlessly. The flat's full of flesh, shoes and hip apathy. Girls in little more than primary coloured bikinis and high-vis vests, prance around the high-ceilinged room, shaking their fists and stomping their Converse clad feet to Crystal Castles. The abrasive, high-pitched female vocals shrill desperately over tetris and super mario sound-effects. Boys flick their floppy, asymmetrical hair as neon lasers cut through the smoke to illuminate the slick writhing bodies in a poisoned fluorescence. I don't recognise anyone, but why would I?
"Bonjour Esser."
Thats me. Duddlyheath Esser. My parents never gave me a chance.
"Hey Page." She invited me. She’s not French but does like to use the odd phrase to simulate sophistication. I met her on my media course through a shared interest in being late. She's in a lemon yellow Boxfresh jacket nearly half unzipped, under which she possibly has nothing on. She’s smoking a Vogue and the glitter gold lettering of her Adidas Ecstasy high-tops twinkle in the dark. She leads me through the heaving crowd, a mass of sweaty, well dressed specters, and we sit on a black leather sofa. M.I.A turns into Santogold. I skin up a spliff. Page cuts lines of coke on a compact mirror.
“Want some?” She asks seductively.
“Nah, I'm broke.”
“No worries, these are on me.”
“Cheers.”
“You skint then?”
“Cold stinking.
“Why don’t you just get a student account?”
“Maxed it out.”
“Already.” She says, impressed, then adds, “you can have more than one.”
“How?”
“Just don’t tell ‘em about each other.”
“Like spouses.”
“Whatever works for ya.”
“Maybe.” I say.
“Or, I can introduce you to the Beard.” Page snorts.
“The Beard?” I snort.
“Yeah it’s his soiree.” She gestures to the decadent scene in front of us. “They call him the merchant of hedonism.”
“Who call him?”
“…They...” She motions again.
“…And this merchant can get me a job?”
“Yeah, like courier.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not some naïve, wide-eyed country-bumpkin, but I’m also not really up for selling drugs.
“I can’t be arsed with dealing.” I say.
“Not dealing Esser, just… facilitating. Anyway, for fuck-sake, what’s wrong with dealing? Dealers are not the despicable characters police, parents and the media make them out to be, they don't loiter around street corners selling crack to kids under the flickering light of broken street lamps. They come in all shapes and sizes and simply provide a public service.”
“Like a public toilet.” I say.
"Whatever."
I’m dubious but I do need the money. My student loan won’t cover my tuition fees, rent and a drinking habit. I see G materialize from the UV montage, he swaggers over to the sofa with a couple of Kronenbourgs and a rollie hanging from his lips. And this comprises the long list of people I know down here, Page and G, I’ve only been here a few days.
“Easy Geez!” Shouts G planting two purple pills in my palm. They have double cherries on them.
“Page.” He says with feigned suave and gives her the same then passes me a can of Kronenbourg and we all double drop with a wash of beer. The Ting Tings turn into Little Boots. We make our way into the epicenter of iridescent depravity. Red Rayban wayfarers are in. So are leggings and brogues. We dance for a bit, Page disappears, probably to the toilet to do more coke. G introduces me to Ben and V. Ben has a handlebar moustache and pointy shoes. He looks like he's tried sucking cock at least once. V’s in a long caption t-shirt dress that reads “save the children.” I hope they’re not together. Page returns and seems to know Ben and V. She’s set up an ominous meeting with the Beard. Wiley turns into Lethal Bizzle.
“Come with me Esser.” Page takes my hand and we drift through the throng of vivid colours. Those double cherries are good. My heads spinning and my pupils are swimming. I lose myself for a moment and realize I’ve been staring at an ivory white door with Page looking at me expectantly.
“You ok?”
“Yeah, sure.” I say.
The door opens into a hazy den of inequity. Dark dubstep forebodes in the background. Moody hip-hop heads in flat peaked caps that still have their store labels on, stare unflinchingly through me. I shrink. The Beard is in a Victorian armchair with a guy called Tyni leaning behind him. Tyni, another ridiculous hip-hop name purposefully spelt wrong with Postmodern irony. He's a gargantuan cross between Chewbacca and Lurch. I wouldn't say any of this to his face of course. There’s a coffee table that has an upturned, ornately framed mirror for its surface, as well as a long beige sofa and towers of vinyl stacked and pushed up against the walls. There’s an on-suite bathroom with black marble surfaces on which hundreds, maybe thousands of pills are being counted by a couple of hot, half naked skets wearing Burberry bikinis who don’t bother to acknowledge us, they just keep counting. You don’t see this kind of unsolicited, gratuitous glamour unless it’s framed. The Bug turns into Burial. The guys laugh maniacally at a YouTube video of a midget fight on Jeremy Kyle.
"Sit down Esser." Says The Beard, motioning towards the sofa. Tyni remains standing behind, alternating his glare between Page and I.
"So what can I do you for this eve?"
“Um, yeah…” I start
“Esser wants to tic some beans.” Interjects Page.
“Ok Esser, what’s your biz down here in Brighton?”
“Just moved down for uni.”
“Excellent, education is the key to unlocking a brighter future, or so I'm told, and I can always do with more prongs in the student cattle market. You got a lotta contacts?”
“Oh yeah, he’s a right little social butterfly.”
“Can’t he talk for himself Page?” Snaps the Beard.
Actually I wish Page would talk for me, my jaws tensing up and I think I’ve been grinding my teeth. Plus, I’m trying to work out whether it’s sexual tension between the Beard and Page or if they’re both just really coked-up. Skream turns into Bong Ra.
“Do you believe in Karma, Esser?” Asks The Beard.
"What?"
"Karma." Repeats the Beard mechanically.
"…I, err. I have faith in a natural balance."
The Beard ponders this while cutting some generous lines on the mirror-table.
"I believe we make our own Karma." And he punctuates the point with a slow controlled snort.
“Empowered.” I mumble staring at myself in the mirror, my face dissected by a long white airstrip.
“Yes, well. The issue at hand, a lotta little uns. Fine.” He says. “Get rid o’ these and come see me in a week.” He chucks me a bag brimming with hundreds of pills. They’re big white triangles, rounded off at the corners, like lots of engorged Smints.
“Come on, let’s get me drunk.” Says Page, brushing my forearm. I get up struggling not to wobble and slip on a magazine called 'The Bottomless Slit'. I catch both the Beard’s and Tyni’s glower as we exit with a dozen daggers stared into our backs.
“How many little uns are here?” I ask, condemningly holding up the bag at Page.
“I dunno, like, five hundred.”
“What-the-fuck Page?! I don’t want five hundred pills.”
“Relax Madonna, I’ll help you get rid of them. Anyway that’s, like, a grands worth.”
“…How much do we owe the Beard?”
“Well you owe him half a g.”
“Great.”
“Esser, look around, it’s not gonna be hard to move these.”
I survey the scene. New ravers body-pop next to the self-conscious shuffling of emos. Art school dropouts twitch next to the swaying of wicker skirt bohos. Everyone’s looking casually insatiable in their own little sub-culture, all flaunting their individuality in the same way. Page introduces me to more people. Tom, Dick and Harry, all chavs in Nike caps and Reebok Classics. A girl called L, or Elle, I’m unsure, but she’s hot in a tight, white Warehouse top, although she’s hanging on the limp arm of Ben. A guy called DJ Praiz and some other guy who runs a music blog called 20 Jazz Funk Greats, which was recently voted one of the top ten music blogs by Dazed and Confused magazine. This means something, apparently. When the word is out that I’ve got hundreds of high-grade little uns I don’t need Page to meet people, everyone introduces themselves to me. Drug induced popularity. It’s false, but I don’t care. Page abruptly grabs my hand and drags me to the toilet. The clinical monochrome surfaces provide some brief respite from the relentless fun outside. She sits on the closed toilet seat and looks at me in the mirror while unfolding her wrap of coke. Well, probably the Beards coke. When girls look this fit they never have to pay for drugs. I wish I was a woman. She picks up a Mach3 razor from the sink and expertly dismantles it taking out a single blade. It's not until she's done a couple of lines that she looks at me directly and asks.
“So how much have you been selling them for?”
“Um, like, five for a tenner.”
“What?! We’re not a fucking charity Esser. If you wanna make some decent profit it’s three for a tenner. Maybe four for a tenner, if you’re feeling particularly frivolous.”
“But I’ve been sorting them for…” I give up with my defense as she’s not listening, instead checking herself in the mirror and reapplying her UV makeup to her wing-mirror cheekbones.
“Trust me Esser” she kisses me on the corner of my mouth “and you’ll make a lot of mula and a lot of mates. Now come on, there’s work to be done.”
The top of a lacey white thong pokes out from her jet-black Miss Sixty jeans as she leaves the sanctuary and heads back into dazzling debauchery. I can’t help but follow.
CSS turns into Dizzy Rascal. V body-swerves some guy in navy Evisu jeans and approaches me with a demure smile.
“So Esser, you down here studying?” I think this is the first time in the last few hours that someone’s talked to me without an ecstasy agenda.
“I've just started a media degree.”
“How you finding it?”
“Not bad, but they’re hitting us with essays already, and I hate writing.”
“Yeah I know what you mean, I’m writing one at the moment for my photography course.”
“Oh yeah, what’s it about?”
“The corrosive role of photography in the affluent mass-media of the 21st Century, referring particularly to the work of Susan Sontag.”
“Wow, sounds like you’ve got it figured out, maybe you could help me with mine?”
“Sure.” V nods. She’s hot. She looks a bit like Alexa Chung but with more of a button nose, bigger breasts and sparking a Marlboro Menthol. We swap numbers. I catch Page shooting me a frown. Ben and L join us. They’re both soaking in sweat or alcohol, or both, their skin shows through their now translucent tops.
“Hey those pills are great Esser!” Gerns Ben over the din.
“Yeah they’re not bad.” They are pretty good. Everyone looks beautiful. Hugging is definitely in.
“You got any more?” He asks.
“Yeah sure how many do you want?”
“Ten for twenty quid?”
“Sorry man, I can only give you eight for twenty.”
“But you sold me five for a tenner earlier.”
“Yeah, that was just an introductory offer, to reel you in.”
“… It worked.” He smiles through clenched teeth.
I fight back a yawn. My wallet’s bulging but my body’s drained. Page disappears again. V's being chat-up by some graphic design student wearing a Fred Perry polo shirt and a pair of pristine white Dunlop plimpsols. Neon Neon turn into Metronomy. My eyelids are drooping. I can’t be bothered with this charade much longer. I see Tyni leave. Page emerges.
"You wanna get some air?" She asks.
"Sure." As I exit I catch eye contact with V, the graphics student still rabbitting in her ear. I mime, “I’ll call you" with a finger-thumb telephone to my ear and she nods.
Fresh air is amazing. I take a long deep breath and we walk over to the Level and sit on the skate ramps. Page is smoking a Vogue and talking about the Beard and money and fair trade. I try to smother another yawn.
"Am I boring you Esser?"
"I dunno, I wasn't really listening."
"Fuck off." She says with a playful push.
"Nah, I’m sorry, I’m just tired."
"Go home then." She gently kisses my upper lip, slides down the ramp and heads back the way we came, towards bright lights and loud sirens. I hail a cab. At home I put on Air and empty my bag. There’s a lot of money and a lot of pills. It doesn’t look like tonight’s damaged them at all. There’s far more than five hundred here. I count the money. Nearly three hundred pounds. Not bad for chewing the fat and getting messy. My bed is still a welcome retreat. I skin up a spliff, smoke half and drift off. Sleep is good.




Chapter 2.

I wake up around noon. Harsh rays of sunlight beam through my venetian blinds and abuse my unsuspecting eyelids. The hairs on the nape of my neck rise to attention, saluting the sun, however my head feels heavy. I drink a pint of water and listen to Bonobo on my Spotify. Resisting the temptation to smoke the half-spliff sitting in my ashtray I put the kettle on and have breakfast; Frosties mixed with Coco-Pops, beans on toast and an orange. Most important meal of the day. Text Page “U in? x” and start tidying my room, which doesn’t take long because it’s still not fully furnished. I make my bed and sort out the clutter on my desk, which constitutes throwing away unopened bank statements and letters from the student loan company. I chuck most of my unwashed clothes into a dilapidated canvas cupboard. I reckon minimalism is an easy way to achieve a positive feng-shui. I check Facebook, seventeen new notifications, that’s a record. Fuck-loads of friend requests, all people from last night I presume athough I don’t remember giving my email out. Message G back, write on V’s wall. I sign out and head to Page’s.
After a few minutes wait, she opens the door.
“How much mula did we make last night?”
“Good morning to you too Page.” This is my first visit to her place. Empty Lambrini bottles are dotted throughout the front room, as are ashtrays and mini skirts. It’s like a Manchester morgue of good times. She’s in ripped denim hot pants and a shirt that says “who the fuck is Harry Potter?” and she’s looking surprisingly perky considering last nights shenanigans. Ladytron turns into Nightmares on Wax with T4 muted on the TV.
“Anyway, what’s all this we talk? I made around two ton.” I’m reluctant to give her the full figure.
“We, I, semantics. Without me you wouldn’t have made any… So I want at least twenty percent.”
“What’re you, my agent?”
“No agents make ten, managers make twenty.” She replies indignantly, exhaling smoke with a silent ‘fuck you.’
“Well before you get a cut, I’ve gotta pay the Beard back.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Of course I do.”
“Nope. You left just in time.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The Beard got busted last night.” She makes no effort to hide the smile on her face.
“What?!”
“His party was raided. The police rushed in all guns blazing, held everyone there until they confiscated all the drugs, which took till dawn and then they dragged the Beard out in handcuffs.”
“…Deep.”
“Deep? Fucking deep? This is great Esser. Now we’ve got a little less than a thousand beans that we don’t have to pay for.”
“I knew there were more than five hundred!”
“Of course there were, and now it’s they’re pure profit.” The default Nokia text message tone keeps chiming from her mobile phone.
“…It’s too good to be true.”
“Well believe it baby.” She says running her index finger under my chin. “The Beard’s gonna be gone for a while.”
“How long?”
"Well… with the fresh order he had in… Plus the fact that everyone at the party was on his drugs, so there's no doubt of intention to supply… He's probably looking at like, eight or nine years, with a minimum of serving five...” She says triumphantly. “And sooo, with the stock that we have from last night, we’re looking at making well over three grand."
“That amount of dirty money will never go unnoticed.”
“Always with the worrying Esser.” She slides behind me and gently massages my shoulders, whispering in my ear. “Loosen up. This is good news. The Beards behind bars and we’re in the flush with enough ecstasy to get the Titanic high.”
Pages phone rings, a hideous polyphonic tone of Brittany’s Toxic, she says “yeah” six times, followed by OK and then hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“How many beans have you got on you?”
“About a ton.”
“Good, let’s go. We have business on the beach.”

We walk through town and Page seems to know every other person. Pierced-up punks, urban hippies, fine-art hipsters, goths and rockers, all milling, cruising and bimbling about boutiques, and cult comic book shops followed by the odd quirky pub. Obligatory small talk pre-emanates the real purpose of all these encounters. Drugs and money, drugs and money. In the North Laines there’s a tight rope walking violinist. I chuck some silver in the bowler hat below him.
The beach is packed, drenched in golden sunlight and bare skin. Pretty girls and pretty boys parade themselves from pier to pier. We meet our targets in front of the Fortune of War pub. It’s a group of trendies, all trim hats and tight pipe jeans. Names fly at me from all directions. Sarah, Voytek, who looks like DJ Praiz from last night, Ursula, K.T, Maya, Not-Gay-Tom, Roxy and Rain, and I thought my first name was bad. If they’re not students they’re either producers, DJ’s or club promoters. As well as some members of a Brighton based nu wave band called Maths Class. Everyone’s smoking Marlboro Lights and one of the girls is reading a Heat article entitled “Why Sex With My Sister is the Best Ever” and she’s giggling quietly to herself. I sell thirty little uns before I even sit down and knock one back with a long sip of Corona. I want to call V, but I don’t. I could at least text her. I don’t. G slumps disconsolately next to me and proceeds to throw pebbles at other pebbles.
"Whassup G?"
"... If my dick doesn't make itself useful soon, my bollox are gonna pack up their testosterone and leave."
"No joy last night then?"
"About as much joy as the holocaust."
"Ouch. What you on tonight?"
"Probably go Devotion with this lot. You up for it?"
"Yeah sure."
"Bring a lot of pills, you'll make a lot of money." He says.
"And the music?"
"Oh, drum & bass, breakbeat, probably dubstep."
"Cool." I say looking out to sea; it winks back at me with a thousand glinting eyes. The tide’s coming in.






Chapter 3.
I can hear the bass rolling out of the club from half way down Madiera Drive. The muffled sound of anticipation reverberates through the doors and windows. Concorde 2 is bursting at the seams like the busty brunette in the queue. We skip the heckling line of frustrated punters and head straight for the main bouncer. Who's name Page tells me, is Lucifer.
"I know him." She says. Knows, blows, tomato, tomato. Fuck it. We're in and unsearched. I’ve put the pills in Tictac boxes, I don’t really know why, it seemed like the most logical receptacle at the time. Noisia turns into Friction. The molotov crowd’s made up of rudeboys, pikies and townies sprinkled with the odd emo kid and just enough hot girls to keep the less than reputable characters happy and horny. It’s all Nike caps and Ben Sherman shirts. What do you expect from a drum and bass night called Devotion? High Contrast turns into London Electricity. There's a five man wait at the bar but this doesn't dissuade Page who slips around the side and flirts with the barman to get us two cans of Red Stripe. Before we can make it to the main room I’ve made sixty quid.
“Pendulum’s headlining.” Page tells me.
“When’s he on?”
“In about an hour.”
Green lasers cut through the smoky space above our heads and silhouetted hands reach up to touch the intangible surfaces of toxic light. Brockie turns into Bad Company. Page has drifted towards the front of the stage with a loyal following of sweaty heads gurning after her. People are drawn to me by some primal party instinct. It’s annoying, but it’s easy. Then a tap on the shoulder I wasn’t suspecting.
“…Shit. Alright… Tyni, is it?”
“Outside.” He orders with his fried breakfast bulk towering over me. He won’t start anything here, too many people, too many bouncers, surely. We exit via the double doors to the right of the stage where the dehydrated raving elite are leaning on the outside of the club, gasping and pumping their tops in a desperate bid to cool themselves down. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and notice an unhealthy river flowing down the back of Tyni’s Stussy T-shirt.
“You owe me a monkey.” He barks, lighting a B&H Gold.
“I owe the Beard.”
“Yeah well, I’m his debt collector.”
“…I’ve got till Friday.”
“’Fraid not cock-pump. Due to… mitigating circumstances, you’ve now got three days, and I want what you’ve already made, right now.” He bears down on me blowing smoke in my face.
“Well… I haven’t really made much… yet.”
His massive paw clamps around my neck and shoves me against the wall.
“Don’t. Fucking. Lie. Not only do you owe me a whole g, you’re also the prime suspect for the Beards unfortunate demise.” He knows better words than I gave him credit for.
“What the fuck?! I wasn’t even there!”
“Exactly! You tic a thousand beans and then breeze just before the pigs turn up. Ain’t that convenient?” He growls and flicks his half smoked cigarette into the darkness of outside.
“How come you’re not locked up with him? I saw you leave right before I did.”
“Shut-the-fuck-up.” He states, bobbing his head giving each word a rhythmic beat. With his yeti hand still tight around my throat he fishes around in my back pocket and pulls out the crumpled bunch of notes.
“I’ll be taking this. And seeing as you obviously do have some beans on you, we’ll link up out the front when the last tune of the night drops and you’ll give me whatever you make from tonight. Clear?”
“…Crystal.” I choke.
Inside Page is pulling some skinhead and I glare disapprovingly but she’s too involved in his tonsils to notice so I take a wander to the back-room chill-out area. I see G in his Liam Gallagher outfit, hassling people for Rizzla, the people being Maya and the trendsetters from the beach. You know the six degrees rule, where everyone knows everyone in six steps? Well in Brighton it’s more like two steps. Maya doesn’t acknowledge me, she’s sitting on a plastic chair hugging her knees so her skirt rides high and she’s flashing white knickers.
“Easy Esser.”
“Easy G.”
“You still stocked?”
“Yeah.”
“Fantastic mate… Now, I don’t technically have any cash on me, but we could trade, narc for narc?”
“Sure, whatcha got?”
“Banging beak.”
“Alright. Let’s loo.”
“Safe.”
The toilet is a pleasant escape. G unwraps about an eighth of coke from a flyer and cuts a couple of hefty lines on the cistern while I place a couple of freebies on his tongue and feed him some Red Stripe. We take it in turn to snort.
“How’d you know Maya?” I ask.
“Dunno… friends of acquaintances of friends.”
“Right. She’s pretty fit.”
“Yeah, she’s hot.” He says turning to upzip his flies. “But… big feet.”
“... I hadn’t noticed.”
“You will… God damn it man!” He strains. “I’m pisstipated! What’s a guy gotta do to take a piss?”
“Relax G.” I say putting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “When it’s time, you will go.”
“…Nnh. So, did you come with Page?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s she at?”
“Half way down some chav’s esophagus.”
“Fucking slut-bucket.”
“Sucking lemons G?”
“And you’re not?”
“…Touché.” I answer.
“So the Beard’s banged up.” He says.
“How’d you know?”
“Everybody knows.”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah he is.”
“Who’d you think squealed?”
“No one, pigs just turned up.”
“Pigs never just turn up Esser.”
“It was coincidence.”
“No such thing as coincidence mate, only consequence.”
We head back to the chill-out area where Maya’s arguing with Voytek or DJ Praiz about Pendulums set.
“See, Tarantula. I told you!” He shouts. “They’ll only play their own tunes, mostly from In Silico, then every other track, they drop Tarantula.”
“Why not, it’s a good tune?” Asks Maya, struggling to skin up a rollie as her fingers shake.
“It was a good tune, but after you’ve heard it thirty times a night, every night, it starts to grate on you.”
“Masochist was a good tune.” She says.
“Masochist was a good tune. Before all the electric guitars and drum snares, before it became drum and bass rock for dancefloor grungers.”
“Come on bass-snobs, capé pm.” Appeals G.
I’m thinking I need to leave before the end and miss Tyni. He’s already robbed me of a ton. So we head to the main room where the jam-packed crowd are chanting “Tarantulaaa!” and stabbing the air with gun fingers. We weave through the endless mass of screw faces and I’m tired of getting elbowed in the ribs and tripping over pikey’s feet so I make for the front room.
I think I see Page, I wonder what V’s doing. I get a Red Stripe from the bar and discreetly sort out who I think are Tom, Dick and Harry, but can’t be sure. Everyone’s faces are gaunt with thin skin stretched over their prominent skeletons like wet latex over faded steel. I hope I don’t look that bad. I clock Page exiting via pikey piggy-back.
“Bon soir Esser!” She shouts. I just nod and get back to aimlessly searching through my phones inbox although I know there are no new messages.
“She’s off then.” Says G sidling up beside me.
“Looks like it.”
“What about you?”
“Duno, havn’t thought that far ahead. I’ve gotta go soon though and duck Tyni.”
“Cool, come to Maya’s for some post-apocolyptic wind-down?”
“Sure. If that’s cool with Maya?”
“Maya!” Shouts G. “Is it cool if Esser joins us?”
Maya rolls her eyes and turns to G, then looks at me quizzically.
“…Why not. You’re Page’s new dealer right?”
“…I’m her new friend.”
“Yeah, ok.” She says getting three for a tenner.

Maya’s place is in Kemp Town, something Mews or Muse. People sit, lay and perch wherever they can. It’s basically the same group that were on the beach, plus Ben and L, who I didn’t see at Devotion but may well have been there. Are they together? Fit girls do go for gay guys. I’m not really sure of anyone else’s name so I resort to calling everyone mate, man and… pal. Some pal’s just ordered two crates of Oranjeboum and Strongbow, three bottles of Smornoff and three bottles of coke from Booze Brothers. If you’re not smoking a spliff you’re rolling one, and if you’re not snorting a line, you’re cutting one. Four Tet turns into Aphex Twin. You know those Kanye West sunglasses that are just slits of plastic? They’re in. So are lapels. The guys from Maths Class all have different colours of the same style pipe jeans. Except the drummer who’s in an aqua blue suit with lime green leg warmers and crisp white Reebok high-tops. He looks good. There’s a girl from an art collective called ‘Daa’. They squat abandoned buildings and put on exhibitions. She’s currently living in an empty hotel in Mayfair. People give me the time of day as long as I give them pills and listen to self-appointed critics battle it out.
“Trust, the sound of now is post punk nu-rave!”
“No man, everyone’s listenging to nerdcore-glitch with like, four by four basslines.”
Sounds impressive. I think Maya’s making eyes at me, but I’m not certain because I’m having trouble focusing and she hasn’t really looked at me since the club when she was picking up pills. Square Pusher turns into Prefuse 73. There’s a mirror being passed around as a chemical launch pad and I catch my reflection. I need to go to the toilet and fix up. Not before a line though. Fuck. Snorting MDMA feels like inhaling the whole world’s nuclear sins up your nose in one go. My nostril is on fire, I think my septum might fall out. I don’t wanna do this again. I probably will though.
Toilets are a sanctuary. I check the wad of twenties and tens spilling out of my pocket. I can't be bothered to count it now. It looks about right. But what’s right? Pissing is awesome. I barely think about Page, or V. Just as I finish shaking off and zipping up the door opens slowly.
"Sorry… I’m, just about done."
"Don't be." Says Maya, closing the door behind her.
Don’t be? What the fuck does that mean, keep pissing? She pushes up against me and our mouths are one. She shoves her tongue to the back of my throat. I’m pulling her top over her head and groping her soft pert breasts. Her hands are down my trousers pulling my cock up and unbuckling my belt. Maya, I say to myself as a reminder. I hope it's to myself. Our tongues are fighting for space in the others mouth and I push her up against the door, hitch her skirt up and raise her left leg and put her foot up on the side of the bath. She does have big feet. Fuckit. I slip her dental floss thong to one side. Her pussy's moist and glistening but I’m... I’m. I’m not. I’m nothing. Fuck. Shit. I wish for the ground to open up and swallow me. I wish for a stray terrorist attack on her flat right now.
"What the hell? Why the fuck is it soft?!" She demands.
"Maybe coz you're shouting at it."
“Fucking useless.” She says exacerbated. I’m still desperately mashing my flaccid crotch against hers.
“Don’t bother.” She says. “You ever got a slug into a slot machine?”
“What?”
“Do less, yeah.” And she struts out.
















Chapter 4.

I wake up around 2 in the afternoon. Alone in my own bed. I do my best not to put the pieces of last night back together, it’s better that I don’t remember. My cranium’s caving in. Light is not my friend. I have a cup of tea and smoke a rollie while listening to Aim. Steve Jones is a pineapple on T4. I count my cash. I’ve got over half a grand already. Amazing, although technically none of it's mine, yet. I count out another hundred pills. After a cold shower and some marmite on toast I feel slightly more human. Text V, “Hey it’s Esser from the freshers party, you still up for a study session? x.” I should call but I can’t be bothered. I check Facebook. I confirm some friend requests from people at Maya’s last night, which only serves to remind me of the travesty, and notice that Page’s status is “I love myself therefore I am.”
V lives near Seven Dials in a homely little flat with lots of plants and big bay windows. Everything is in it’s place and there’s actually toilet paper in the bathroom, which is a nice change. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and didn’t have to scramble frantically, trousers around my ankles, looking for a spare scrap of paper in a reeking panic. She’s got a fat tabby cat called Gonzo who’s rubbing himself up against my leg.
“Antics last night?” She asks while pouring two cups of Earl Grey.
“Ergh, Devotion at Concorde 2.”
“Any good?”
“…Debauched.”
“Feelin’ ropey?”
“Pretty much.”
We watch Shipwrecked and talk about our courses. Her eyes are captivating, big and brown like a couple of deep wells you could oh-so-easily fall into. Gonzo’s purring on her lap and she’s showing me some of her photography on her Mac Book. It’s a series of images depicting some Sylvia Plath poem. It’s pretty good, actually inspiring me to be studious. G's text me. He’s still at Maya’s, I don’t think he’s slept yet. Page also texts me trying to persuade me to join her at Rikitiks. She probably just wants pills, or money, but I could do with a drink.
“You popular?” Asks V.
“Ahh, not really. I might go to Rikitiks inabit, if you fancy a drink?”
“Nah, I’ve got work to do.
"Fair enough."
"Ben said him and L are going to some house party later on near London Road, you’ll be able to make some money.”
“Oh, right, I’ll give them a call then.”
"Yeah."
"...We didn't even get any work done." I say.
"Not even nearly."
"Maybe we could try again sometime? We owe it our essays." I say.
"Ha, speak for yourself Esser."
"Right, well I definitely owe it my essay, and I think my essay deserves a bit of your help."
"You do huh?
"I do."
"Yeah, go on then." She folds.
"Wicked, I'll text you in the week?"
"Why don't you try calling, you'll get an immediate answer."
"Or none at all."
"Oh don't such be a defeatest."
I don't really want to go, but I doubt she’s that easy. No, she’s scholarly and ambitious. A diligent rose. I say goodbye to Gonzo and kiss V on the cheek, only slightly awkwardly.
Rikitiks is lit like a cheap Dan Flavin retrospective with poor art deco floral accents on the wallpaper. Mr Scruff turns into Quantic. It’s not too busy yet. Page is with Sarah, K.T. and Not-Gay-Tom, I think. Sarah’s timidly sipping Tom Yum soup which makes me think I should eat something. K.T’s absently flicking through a copy of Vice entitled the ‘Special Issue’. Page is in her rockabilly outfit, all polka dots and handkerchiefs holding up her hair, smoking a Vogue and definitely a little wired.
“Where you been?” She asks.
“V’s.”
“Oh yeah… Doin’ what?”
“Just, studying.”
“Mmm, I bet” She takes a long drag. “So you up for this party tonight? We’ll need you there.”
“I dunno, I think I’ve got uni tomorrow.”
“Oh come on you geek, it’ll be fun.”
“…Fine. Who’s is it?”
“Don’t worry, you’re invited.”
“…Okay. I’m gonna get a drink.”
“Get me a Tuscan Mule will you?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s. A. Tuscan. Mule.” She says.
“…Right.”
At the bar Cinematic Orchestra turns into Gotan Project. I order a couple of Tuscan Mules and eye up the hot barmaid who has a bad tribal tattoo on her coccyx. Page gets some matches from the bar.
“K.T and Sarah have got an eighth of coke we can rinse… get us in the mood…”
“Okay.”
“How many beans y’got on you?”
“A ton.” I reply.
So we get drunk and head to K.T and Sarah’s which is basically right opposite Rikitiks. There’s Hello and OK magazines littering the floor, a black thong hanging from the curtain rail and no clean glasses. We rinse two grams of coke and drink cheap white wine straight from the bottle while listening to a Fabric Live CD. The girls change their outfits at least five times each and Not-Gay-Tom tells me about his Joseph Beuys-reminiscent sculpture work. But I’m not really listening. I’m disappointed in myself. I'm going to go out tonight and probably not make it into uni tomorrow and I'm not going to do anything about it. I can still try but I'm reserved to the fact of failure. Nevermind. The girls come out, all in short skirts, all smoking Vogues, all in unison We leave for the party.

It's live. I can hear the Klaxon's “Atlantis to Interzone” emanating from down London Road. We roll in, straight through the hall to the main room where skinny boys take pictures with lo-fi cameras of skinny girls popping their hips out to the unremitting beat. Tutus are in, the brighter the better. Sequins are in, so are piano belts and keyboard ties. Jesus. Everyone bounces from floor to ceiling then suddenly stops to strike a provocative pose for lenses that aren’t always there. MGMT turns into Hadouken!. Nameless eyes catch mine through plastic slits of stunning colour. American Apparel hoodies adorn either bare flesh or bad t-shirts. Page is twisted but still manages to radiate a dissolute sexuality. I think I see G but whoever it is quickly disappears into the nu-rave collage. Drop a pill. Go for a wander.
In the kitchen guys play with their triangular hair as they talk to girls doing the same thing. Everyone's satirically genuine. I get a Corona from a plastic recycling box full of ice and head out the back door into the garden. There's thirty people talking over each other in a space only made for ten. Ben and L are smoking European cigarettes on trailer trash patio furniture. L’s wearing a torn caption T-shirt that says “You looked fitter on MySpace.”
“Esser! Thank the devil you’re here.”
“... Oh, don’t say that Ben.”
“Come on don’t be shy, you loaded?”
“…Yeah. How many do you want?”
He looks at L for an answer, who just shrugs and drags on her cigarette.
“…Thirteen?” He says.
“…Ok.” I give Ben the pills and he gives me a crumpled twenty and a ten.
“I saw V earlier.”
“Yeah, we know.” He says swallowing.
“Oh… I tried to get her out but no joy.”
“No, it’s her Sunday study-jam. Don't take it personally.”
As soon as people know I have drugs they're all over me like a rash, a rash that I enjoy scratching. I'm man of the minute, or moment… Whichever is less. I move to the front room and skirt the outside of the crowd. Justice vs CMS is playing and everyone's chanting along to the words "We, are, you're friends, you'll, never be alone again, so come on!" G’s in the heart of hyped revelry, his hair’s wet with sweat and he’s lurching after some blonde who looks like Fern Cotton.
“G! Yo G!” I shout uselessly. I tap him on the shoulder but it still takes him half a minute to recognize me. I gesticulate to the sofa in the corner of the room and once he’s understood, he grabs the girls hand and tows her with him. He introduces me to his victim but I don't catch her name. She's wearing red pantaloons with a little black waistcoat that barely conceals her breasts. She’s got her own YouTube channel called Sextacy16.
"It's received, like thirty thousand views." She says.
"Wow... That’s, popularity."
"Yeah, but the comments can get you down."
"I can imagine they might."
"Like, sometimes I can't be arsed, but now I think I owe it to the fans, ya know?"
"Not really." I say.
“Esser, we need some disco biscuits.” Interrupts G.
“No prob.”
“Well, at this very moment in time, I don’t actually have any money on me…”
“…Oh, no worries. Just pay me tomorrow."
"I was hoping you might say that."
"So, how many d’you want?”
“Um, twenty.” He gargles through Strongbow.
“Twenty?” I repeat.
“Yeah, I’ll shift a few and make the doe to pay you back.”
“…Oh, ok, that makes sense.” And we go to the bathroom for a bit of discretion. Close the door. G slumps on the toilet, I give him the pills and he examines them vacantly.
"Page is well on it tonight." I say.
"No change there then." He mumbles.
"You two close?"
"Esser, no one's close to Page."
"She was close to the Beard for a bit?"
"Yeah, those two deserve each other."
"Meaning?"
"Y’know…" I’m not sure if he’s just a bit fucked or purposefully staying vague.
He drops a pill, downs the rest of his Strongbow and chucks the can into the sink saying, "I need to get laid." matter-of-factly and hauls himself up to stumble out of the bathroom and back into madness.
As I exit the toilet I see Page leaving a room with a bunch of obese hip-hop heads, the more bulbous one looks like Tyni so I duck downstairs to the basement. Adult turns into Bloc Party. I open a door to an avalanche of weed smoke. It's a semi-converted garage, less dank than it sounds but still pretty dingy. Records lie loose from their sleeves and half crushed cans of Carlsberg cover half the carpet, which is spotted with so many cigarette burns it looks like a connect the dots of an inverted constellation. The lighting is offensive, a plethora of bare light bulbs like something out of a Jeff Wall photograph. Flies hover aimlessly.
"Esser!" It's Dick, I think.
"Lads, this is the kiddy that’s making a mockery of the Beard." He says to the nameless props. "Come in mate, close the door behind you."
It’s his party, he tells me with crazed gusto. His shiny skinhead and acid-washed black jeans would make him look like a cracked-out member of the BNP if he wasn't surrounded by a bunch of white hippies with dreadlocks. No one else is talking, there's just his voice and insane gabba-breakcore ripping through every atom in the alienated underground.
"Beer?"
"Yeah, why not."
"Line?"
"Yeah, thanks." I reply.
He passes me a CD case with ridiculously big grey lines cut all over it. They're hardly crushed, they look like lines of debris not cocaine. I do one and whince.
"Easy mate, bit of an experiment that."
"Ergh, how’d you mean?"
"Few beans, bit of beak, some K, ya know."
No, I don’t, but I will soon. There's a fly on the ceiling trapped between the myriad of naked light bulbs. Dick walks over to the far wall where he opens a coffin-like cupboard to reveal an arsenal of heavy, air-gun artillery. A sick assortment of air rifles, BB guns and a fuck-load of pepper spray. And a fucking crossbow. How about that? My throats dried up, I can't swallow. Take a long glug of beer. My head's trying to escape my shoulders. So, Dick's a gun nut. As much as you can be in England, and he's talking me through the miracles of his Magnum.357.
"It's a perfect replica down to the finest detail bruv. This seamless piece of machinery has a muzzle velocity of four hundred and forty one metres per second. Imagine that." He says, spinning the barrel, clicking it in place and pointing it at the mirror on the adjacent wall.
"I'd rather not."
He swivels round to point it at me, staring blankly down the barrel. Great.
"So, seeing as you’ve ripped off a few hundred beans from the Beard, how ‘bout you tic me thirty?"
It’s hardly asking when you've got a working replica-Magnum pointed at someone's head.
"I didn’t rip off the Beard." I say.
“Sure sure sure Esser, the pigs just happened to raid his house that night. Whatever, I don’t care, think the guy’s a cunt muffin anyway, why don’t you just give me the beans anyway, a gesture of good will, for the hospitality I’ve shown you tonight throwing this little hoot-nanny.”
Dunno if I class pointing a very real replica gun at someone’s head hospitality, but I’m hardly in a position to argue.
"How about a trade?" I offer.
"What you got in mind?" He asks, intrigued.
"I'll give you thirty little uns and in return, you give me that gun..."
"Don't be a fucking idiot Esser, this is a hundred and twenty pounds worth of fake gun."
"...Oh. How about a can of mace then?"
He smiles yellow teeth and chucks me a red can. I Exhale.
"Good choice. That bastard will make the corpse of a blind man cry." He says like he knows it for a fact.
He lowers the gun and I start to breathe regularly again. I pocket the can and chuck a baggie of pills towards Dick, but completely misjudge the distance and they end up flying into the cupboard just missing his face.
"Shit, sorry."
Dick glares.
"I've, gotta go." I Say.
"Blatantly." He answers.
I leave without ever fully turning my back on Dick. Outside the early morning sun is a welcome replacement for the inhuman lighting of Dick’s dungeon. My head's playing space cadet. I don't remember getting home.
Chapter 4.

Erghagh. Wake up. It feels like my brain's been marinated in warm petrol and used as a football between Millwall fans. Drink my body weight in water. Make a cup of tea. Lie in bed for another hour. It's 1.30pm. I can still make the afternoon lecture if I get up now. But, I can’t get up now. Give it half an hour and turn up fifteen minutes late, for two hours of postmodern thinkers, French theorists, hyper-reality and counterfeit signs. The Gulf war never happened. I wish last night never happened. Death of the Author. No thanks. Why the hell have I got a can of “Dragons Bile” in my bag? I wish I was studious like V. Work hard and live a wholesome lifestyle. I should at least try writing some of my essay. “Where do you see yourself in the context of culture?” What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Me, and culture. Me and Culture, me and culture.
“The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture.” I’m part of generation text, generation next, Generation Y, the iGeneration, the remix generation whatever you want to call us. We were born in the ‘80’s, the decade of generation X, vacuous, brand obsessed consumers, full of MTV and excess. Now in the millennia, we’re kids who have grown up with fast-food, high-speed broadband and all sorts of instant gratification. We’re patronized, scorned and thought of as inferior by our elders and ‘betters’ because we’ve got no originality. Our generation lives in the era of the remix, it is a homogenous mess made up of elements stolen from the epochs that predecessed us, the hippes and punks, mods and rockers to make up the cyber-punk new-rave hipsters, the dance-pop crunkers, and the landfill emo-gothers.
The material of our publications and broadcasts, that fill our lives, are made up of intertextuality delivered via the hyper-mediated terrain of the internet and multi-media devices like iPhones, Blackberries and Nintendo DS’s.


I’m dejected, just another wasteman. Roll a joint. Spark a spliff. Smoke a J. I need to sleep. I need to eat. Eat then sleep. Toast and marmite, then bed. Better?
















Chapter 5.

I wake up to my phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“Where you at?”
“Morning Page.”
“It’s three in the afternoon sandman.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, shit you are. I’ve been calling you for time, where are you?”
“Where’d you think.”
“Well get out of bed and come meet me at Oxygen Red.”
“Alright, gimme an hour.”
“Make it half.” She hangs up, sexy bitch.
I have a cold shower and a cup of tea. I count my money, nearly a grand now. I stuff the wad in a sock and bury it in my drawer. My head’s foggy as I pull an Easy Jeans T’shirt down over my face, it’s musty with smoke and apprehension. I should have breakfast but I can’t be bothered to eat. Fuckit, head to Oxygen Red.

Town’s hectic, too many people, it must be Saturday. Everyone’s looking at me funny, is everyone looking at me funny? Am I paranoid? If I’m asking myself ‘am I paranoid’ then I am probably paranoid. Shit, is that the Beard? I duck into the nearest shop, Borders and paw over some books while trying to discern whether it is or isn’t the fucking Beard, but there are too many emo kids loitering outside Churchill Square to see clearly. I read the first chapter of Raymond Chandler’s “The Big Sleep” and try to forget about the implications of the Beard’s possible return.
Page is sitting in the window seat with Ben and L and Voytek or DJ Praiz, who's wearing a pastel-blue polo shirt by Fred Perry and Diesel Jeans with CK boxers poking out the top. L introduces us, for what’s got to be the third time.
"Good to meet you." I lie.
"You too." Yeah right.
He's a DJ/producer I’m told again, so who isn't these days?
“What sorta stuff?” I don’t know why I ask.
"It’s like, dance-punk grindcore, ifyaknowwhatimean."
Was that a question? Who cares. Apparently, he frequently flies out to Berlin to play but can rarely get a good gig in his own country.
"The English just don't appreciate him." Explains Page in earnest. No, they don't. I go to the bar and get a double JD and Coke. Down it and order another.
"Thirsty much?" Says Page.
"I just clocked The Beard, I think."
"You think? I think you're paranoid."
"Fuck off, I’m sure it was him." I hiss back.
"Yeah, so what? He probably just made bail."
"So fucking what? If he's out he's gonna want his money and my bollox spinning on two separate turntables."
"That's ridiculous Esser. He won't risk it, he'll get someone else to do it."
"Oh, fucking brilliant."
"Ssshhh. Calm down you little drama queen, don't make a scene. Now you coming with us to Audio tonight?”
“I’ve got uni tomorrow.”
“So, you had uni didn’t you?”
“Did I?”
“Who cares, come to Audio, it’ll be fun.” She says.

Before we reach the club I give Page the little uns to take in although it turns out she knows the girl on the door “from when we were, like 5 years old” which is weird, because Page is still a kid yet I can’t imagine her being a child, so neither of us have to pay and we go unsearched. The club looked swanky on the outside but the inside is just a glorified basement with an overpriced bar. I make sure I get the pills back off Page because I know she’ll soon disappear. I double drop with a wash of San Miguel and put the rest in Tictac boxes. Shit Disco turn into Digitalism. I don’t know who’s DJing. I think I see G but whoever it is melts into the seamless crowd on the dancefloor. Beads are in. Crucifixes are in. Rosemaries and religion are in, so are those geeky Elvis Costello glasses. I get another overpriced beer from the bar and collapse into one of the sofas in the chill-out area while Page rallies us up some custom, which doesn’t take too long.
Everyone’s got their poker face on. Lady Gaga turns into La Roux and the falsetto vocals pierce ‘80’s synths making the club morph into a celestial timewarp. Page introduces me to Voytek or DJ Praiz, again. Again I miss which one it actually is.
“And this is Esser.”
“Oh yeah…”
“Yeah, we’ve met.” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the guy with all the beans right?”
“…So I hear.” I reply.
“Safe, three for a tenner?”
“Yeah. You’re a DJ right?”
“And producer.”
“Of course. What sorta stuff?” I don’t know why I’ve asked.
“Mainly dark-step and neuro-funk.”
“Right.” I’m sure earlier it was dance-punk grindcore, this evening it’s dark-step neuro-funk, I guess the music industry moves so fast these days.
“Dogs on Acid forum voted him the third sickest sixty minute set in the region.” Chimes Page.
“What region? Like England?” I ask.
“Sure, why not.” She says playing with her phone.
G comes over.
“You got any little uns Esser?”
“What happened to the ones I gave you the other night?”
“Hard to say really, last night’s a Scooby Doo mystery waiting to be solved.”
“Well, you’re gonna need to get me the mula for ‘em G.”
“Esser, listen mate I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. Dealer and customer, it’s just like owner and worker ya know? It’s not a good dialectic, especially between friends. In fact, it’s a very unhealthy and ultimately doomed basis for a relationship, which is why you shouldn’t sell me any pills but give them to me for free.”
“But you already owe me half a ton.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about man.” He shrugs.
His intoxicated logic makes some twisted sense so I play the serotonin Samaritan while Page chats up bouncers inbetween frequent bathroom breaks and tequila shot pit-stops. I double drop again with G and watch Page’s degenerate magnetism attract the attention of every crotch in the club. Dance it off and pretend like I don’t care. I don’t care. Sell most of my little uns, stuff my pockets with paper. Go to the toilet with G and do a couple of lines, I don’t bother asking him where he got it from. I’m feeling worse for wear and when I see myself in the mirror I’m a bit repulsed.
“Fuck man, my jaws gone to Guernsey.”
“Guernsey’s supposed to be very nice this time of year.” Says G.
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I should take myself home.”
“Don’t be a pussy.” He says racking up another couple of mini-motorways on the cistern.
“Oi! What the fuck do you think you two are doing?!”
“Shit.” We say in unison.
The bouncer’s not huge but he’s bigger than both of us, put together, and he’s got a face like the corner of a tank. I know we’re fucked, and he knows we know we’re fucked and he’s going to enjoy this, the wanker.
“Both of you come with me.” He grabs us round our necks like a mother with her lion cubs but a lot less cute, and drags us out of the toilet and towards a black door that has ‘staff only’ on it. We protest, twist and wriggle but it’s futile, for me anyway, G takes a more proactive approach and bites down hard on the bouncers fingers clamped round his collar.
“Fuck you fat man!” Shouts G and he dissolves into the mass of student punters.
The bouncer throws me through the black door.
“Coz you’re lippy little mate just did a runner, you’re gonna have to take both your punishments.” I don’t like the sound of that.
“What’s your name boy?”
“Ehm, Tyler Durden.” I say.
“What the fuck are you doing taking illicit substances in my club then Tyler?”
“Wasn’t me, I don’t do drugs.”
“Don’t fuck with me boy, do I look like a cunt you wanna fuck?”
“Defintely not.”
“Exactly, now empty your fucking pockets.”
“All I’ve got are these Tictacs.” I say and empty the last three pills into my mouth, dropping the little plastic box on the floor in front of his feet.
He looks at me tired.
“Pick that up.”
I exhale slowly and bend down for the plastic box, on the way up my head rushes like a freight train, my pupils explode and all I can see for a few seconds are stars. Page comes in straddling a bouncer. It’s the most convoluted sense of relief I’ve ever felt.
“Sorry mate.” Says her bouncer to mine. “Didn’t know you were ‘ere. Who’s this prick?”
“Just found him…”
“What do we have here.” Says Page jumping off his waste and winking at me.
“Two bouncers, a student and lucky little me.” She approaches my bouncer and kisses him on the cheek.
“Relax Phil.” She tells him and squeezes his biceps that unclench from around my arms. She points to her bouncer’s crotch with her eyes.
“Yeah, what about his hard-on?” I say.
“You dick-head Esser.” She replies and kicks her bouncer hard in the nads.
“Esser?” Says my bouncer bemused while I swivel round and do the same, sinking a shell-toe deep into his groin.
“Come on.” She says taking my hand, “we’re outta here.”
Page and I leave the two doughnuts of club security in the dark room, doubled over holding their deadened dicks together.
“You owe me.” She says lighting a cigarette as I piss on a lamppost round the corner from Audio.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
“Why wait till then?”

We go back to mine and cane coke and cigarettes while listening to Arman Van Heldon. Page dances on my bed, her tits bouncing up and down to the funky filth. Her mini-skirt gradually slips off her hips and falls to the bed revealing her tight little ass shaking in a pair of white french knickers.
"Phew. I'm starting to sweat again, I need to take a shower." She says hopping off and skipping to the bathroom. Arman Van Heldon turns into Fake Blood. My eyes are in orbit and I can’t sort my thoughts. Only really have one thought. She returns in nothing but a towel. Beads of water roll down her bare legs. She drops the towel to the floor and moves over to the bed lying down and slowly spreading her legs, never breaking eye contact. She takes off her silver DKNY watch and puts it on my bedside table. We fuck. She's like a pro, making all the right noises in all the right positions. She takes it well but scratches my back to shreds, which is arguably sexy but doesn't do it for me, after a while it just plain hurts so once I've come on her tits I try to get her in the eye but miss and get her hair, which will suffice.
"Damn you Esser, this is a fucking pain in the arse to get out."
"So don't, it's a good look on you."
She fake smiles. "So where we at?"
"What d'you mean, like, where are we at?" I say, taken aback.
"Fuck no, I mean how much mula ‘ave we made?"
"Oh, of course... How much money have we made?..."
"Fine, if it boosts your ego, how much ‘ave you made?"
I go to my desk and open the bottom drawer and take the money wad out the sock. I take a minute to flick through it.
"My my Esser, you have been busy.” She says. “How much is there?"
"A little over a G." There's more like two. I put it back in the sock and close the drawer.
"Hmm, it looks like more. How many beans have you sold?"
"I dunno, like half of them." It's more like seven hundred.
"How have you sold five hundred beans and only made a grand?"
"Freebies." I answer. Her eyes penetrate mine.
"Well, we're gonna need to pay Tyni another visit." She says.
"Why? We've still got five hundred pills to get rid of and have already made plenty of money."
"Yeah, and we can make plenty more, why stop? We've done all the ground work, built up a client base, got ourselves a nice slice of the market, all the hard work's done, now we just sit back, relax and reap the benefits."
"Even so, Tyni's never going to tic me any more pills, I still owe him a grand remember? He's sent me dozens of angry texts, left some fairly threatening voice mails and I'm pretty sure he knows where I live."
"Why?"
"I found this stuck in the post box." I say, grudgingly holding up a naked action man beheaded and with burn marks crossing out his eyes and his crotch.
"Could be for anyone in your house."
"Doubtful."
"Well, it could be from anyone." She says lighting a cigarette.
"That’s reassuring. So how are we gonna get Tyni to tic us another thousand pills?" I ask.
"We're not, I am."
"And how are you gonna do that?"
"I can be very persuasive." She says blowing smoke from kissing lips.
"No doubt." I say. "But seriously? He'll know whatever's for you is also for me."
"So? I'll be straight up with him, just explain that it's in his best interests to give me more coz the more pills I have, the more pills I can sell and therefore the more money I can make to pay him back."
"And you really think he'll buy that?"
"He'll have to won't he, what other choice does he have? Either he doesn't risk it and never gets any money back, or he does risk it for the chance of getting all his money back."
"Which ain't gonna happen."
"Nope."
"Coz we're gonna sell all the little uns and keep all the cash."
"Yeah we are." She says lying on my shoulder. I look up at the ceiling and don’t sleep for hours.




















Chapter 6.

When I wake up Page is on her, her perfect thigh wrapped around my waist. My jaw aches more than my dick. The thick black curtains deny that it's day outside. My mouth is bone dry with a tongue like hells toilet paper. I reach for a dirty glass with an inch of old water and glug gratefully. Except it’s not water, its vodka. Swallow down the retch. Get an actual glass of water and roll a joint. My skulls caving in on itself. I smoke half the jay and jump into a cold shower. When I get out Page is up and has made tea, but only one cup. She's watching an X-Factor repeat with the sound real low while skimming through an old copy of Dazed and Confused, not concentrating on either.
"How ya feelin?" I ask.
"Fuckt." She's definitive.
"Yeah."
"Might-as-well get back on it then." She says with the grin of a good looking devil and slaps shut the magazine. So we do more sniff and smoke joints while I count out cash and little uns as Page hops around the room getting dressed, undressed and dressed again listening to Girls Allowed, talking to people on her mobile and plucking her eyebrows. She kicks down her flimsy cotton knickers and flicks them at me from the end of her foot, they nearly knock drug paraphernalia everywhere and I'd be pissed off, except they landed neatly on my face. I take a breath before throwing them back at her. Stark naked she exhibits herself applying fake tan all over. I toke longingly on a joint and watch content.

It's about 2 in the afternoon when my mobile starts annoying me. L and Ben, Tom, Dick and Harry, and a girl called Roxy who I can't recall but don't let on. Finally Page is ready. I need new clothes. I need new trainers, these Adidas Decades are battered. I think I’ll spend some of Tyni's money on one of those heterosexual shopping sprees guys can have now. We leave and head for the beach, picking up a bottle of Pimms on the way. The seafront is throbbing with people, there's a group of musicians called the Carnival Collective playing instruments made from oil drums and other recycled rubbish as they totter on top of ten-foot tall stilts. Sarah, K.T, Ben and L soon join us on the pebbles in front of the Arc bar.
K.T's wearing a studded leather belt that says, "Trust me, I’m a Christian" and Sarah has a black headband with cat’s ears poking out from her silky blonde hair. They all simultaneously spark up cigarettes. Everyone picks up and then sits down. I smoke a rollie and flick through one of girl's GQ magazine, wondering why a girl has got a GQ magazine.
“Where’s G?” I ask.
“Last time I saw him he was talking to Ben’s fridge.” Says L.

Jess and Voytek or DJ Praiz turn up with more Pimms. Jess has thick black hair that shines like she's slept in a vat of Tresemmé conditioner. Voytek or DJ Praiz has got an iPort and plays High Contrast's album "Tough Guys Don't Dance" to the discomfort of those around us. Two more guys and that girl called Rain, who’s wearing a wicker skirt and braiding her own hair, sit down with an instant barbeque and a dozen vegetarian sausages.
“What you doing tonight Page?” Asks L.
“Dunno, weighing up my options, Friction's playing at Audio.”
“Holy Fuck’s playing at Concorde 2.” Says Ben.
“I wanna go to Stick it On.” Says Sarah.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s a night at the Komedia where you can play fifteen minutes of your own tunes.”
“Yeah, you plug in your iPod and put on a playlist.”
“Sounds cool.” I say.
The sun beats down. People dive into the sea and return to down cans and snort keys. Through the bottom of my glass I see Page drop two pills. Joints are strapped up, bunned down and passed to the left. Brighton beach is awash with nipples, booze and potential. My mind swims. Page looks delectable as droplets of the ocean evaporate from her solar skin. Her D&G aviators are reflective and her eyes are undetectable under them, the only reaction I get is my own reflection. She lies on Sarah's bare stomach, smoking a Marlboro Light and playing with her diamond bellybutton ring that glints provocatively. V texts me. I tell her to come to the beach and she doesn't disappoint. She turns up looking buff in a blue Esprit bikini and a pure white American Apparel hoodie, her slim silhouette briefly blocks out my sun.
"How you doing?' She asks demurely.
"Pissed."
"Good then."
"All the better for seeing you." I think I’m slurring, my gesticulations are two seconds behind my speech which is five seconds behind my thinking.
"You're looking trim." I flirt.
“Thanks.” She replies with a knowing smile.
I hear Page exhale annoyance.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” I say.
“Why not?”
“Coz I text you, rather than called you.”
"I thought I’d let you off."V smiles.
“Well aren’t I lucky.”
“You might be.” She replies.
"…I still need to write my essay."
"I can still help you." She says.
"Mmm... You out tonight?"
"Maybe, but I should do work."
"Yeah, shouldn't we all."
Conversation falls over the crowd. The girls compare moisturizers with Page championing one that uses snake venom.
The sun starts to sink towards the horizon, filtering through the stenciled wreckage of the West Pier, now printed on a crimson sky. The air is quickly tainted with a penetrating chill. We all go to Page’s to binge in the warmth before heading out again. V doesn't, she wants to write the conclusion of her essay. I wish I was at that stage. Fuckit, I'll make money at Page's.

Essay Section.







































Chapter 7.
I wake up with my phone ringing and the common characteristics of a come-down setting in; fear and self-loathing.
"Yeah?"
"Esser, I'm outside."
G. Thank God, not Tyni. or the Beard.
"Hang a minute."
"Hurry up, I'm busting for a piss."
I make two cups of tea while G urinates.
"Thanks mate, but I brought beer." He says coming out of the toilet.
"Safe." I say and put down the kettle.
We drink beer and smoke a spliff. Braintax turns into Jehst's "Holy Water". I should ask for the ton he owes me, but i don't want to. Like he said, owner and worker is a bad dialectic, flawed for friendship.
"So what's the crack." He asks, spreading Golden Virginia into a Rizzla.
"Not much, got messy at Page's last night."
"Just you two?"
"Nah, enough people were there."
"You stack paper?" He asks.
"Bit."
"Tyni there?"
"Hell-to-the-fuck-no. Why would he be there?"
"How much money 'ave you made off him?"
"Oh, yeah."
"No seriously" He continues, "how much?"
"Couple o' grand now I think."
"And Page?"
"What about Page?"
"She know the extent of your stockpile? Surely she wants a cut?"
"Yeah, she does."
"But you don't wana give it to her."
"I do, just not all of it. I put in most o' the leg work, ya know?"
“Sure, so how much does she think you’ve made.” Asks G squinting to stop smoke getting in his eye.
“She’s seen a little more than a grand, but she knows I’ve made more.”
“But she ain't letting on?”
“Nah, she’s playing cool.”
“What about Tyni?”
“He’s fuming, but he’s just a Neanderthal numb-nut, I reckon if I keep a low profile for a bit he’s too dense and too lazy to find me.”
“Ya think? I reckon two grand’s a lot o' money and I reckon Tyni’s pretty resourceful mate so don't underestimate him. Plus, you've dented his pride, taken the piss and damaged his rep.”
“Well what’s he gonna do? He can’t call the police, and the Beard should be in jail for a while, Tyni’s nothing but a red herring.”
"He'll make an example of you. And what 'bout when the Beard makes bail?”
“…”
“Esser?”
“…I think he already has.”
“Fuck-adoodle-danger-wank, you’re fucked. How’s he made bail? Are you certain?”
“Pretty certain?”
“Pretty certain mate? You wanna be absolutely definitely, HIV positive certain Esser. You don’t wanna have to deal with the Beard and Tyni and Page.”
“Page is harmless.”
“Yeah, about as harmless as a black widow with killer tits and a pussy to lose yourself in. Let me ask you mate, have you got an ejector seat for this plane crash?”
“Sure, I’ll play them like a PS3 man.”
“That’s your plan?”
“Yep.”
“How?”
“Fucknose."





Chapter 8.

I’m tired. I don’t know whose party this is but the layout feels familiar. Foamo turns into Diplo. I might have a lecture tomorrow, I’m not sure. I should go home and get an early night. It’s 2.30am. How many little uns have I sold? Fifty? A hundred? Brighton’s a vice city by-the-sea, a bubble of reckless abandon, little else exists outside the circles you run in. A blog photographer called the Face Hunter prowls around the Ikea crowd taking art-house snaps of all the oblivious oxymorons, the party ambience, the guys so meek and geek they’re cool, and the girls sucking on their lollipops with practiced nonchalance.
G staggers up beside me and grabs onto my shoulder to steady himself. Gossip’s “Standing in the way of control” blares out the speakers.
“We’re so fucking Skins.” He says.
“We’re not Skins.”
“Look around Esser, this couldn’t be more Skins if it was filmed and aired on E4.”
“Fuckit.” I double drop and wander off.
“Wait, mate, I need more beans.”
“Buy some then.”

I spend the next few hours floating around and shifting more little uns. Kissy Sell Out turns into Boy 8 Bit. A girl who looks like Lily Allen plays with her fringe while talking to a guy who looks like Alex Turner. I feel like I’m in a permanent state of de-ja vu. Where’s Page? I wonder if V’s coming. V won’t come. I haven’t seen G for a while. I join Ben and L dancing to the pitch-bent basslines and helium vocals. I sweat the hours away thinking as little as possible.
I go for a wander and make more money without making small talk, except for when I bump into Dick who picks up and groans, "Your mate's through there jiving with some jailbait."
I move towards the room he points at and the carpet squelches with spilt beer and sweat as I drift through the labels and haircuts. In a dark bedroom towards the back of the house I can hear faint, slurred murmurs of pleasure and the erratic click of a camera. In the on-suite bathroom G is engaging in an impromptu porn-shoot with a couple of young blondes, one of which has a badge saying “13 Today!” pinned to her H&M jeans. This could be an ironic fashion item, or an absolute statement of the truth. The Face Hunter perves through his lens, snapping away at the soft-core scene that plays out in front of me and getting progressively harder. The girls are disheveled, gurning messes, only half aware of what’s going on as G pulls their tops off, exposing delicate little breasts he bends down and bites their nipples. One of the girls looks up to the light in the ceiling and her eyes roll into the back of her head. I should say something, stop it, get G out of there, but I stay staring, silent and dumb.





Chapter 9.

Ergh. Phone’s ringing. Pick up.
"Yeah?" I struggle to say.
“Yo, you awake?”
“No G.”
“Do you know where my shoes are?”
“What?”
“My shoes, you seen ‘em?”
“No, why?”
“I woke up this afternoon, my socks are soaking wet and I can’t find my shoes.”
“So you walked home in just your socks last night?”
“Evidently.”
“How did you not notice you didn’t have any shoes on?”
“Mate, I could’ve been raped and I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“That’s encouraging then.”
“Yeah... well, wanna get a drink?”
“I think I’ve got a lecture.”
“Well if you think you’ve got a lecture, you’re obviously not very prepared, and you know what they say.”
“What?”
“Fail to plan and you plan to fail.”
“Right.”
“Better save your mental energy for when you’ll actually learn something.”
“That is a good argument.”
“Course it is, see you at the Victory in half an hour then.”
My landlord lives in the same house, in the converted attic on the top floor so I have to keep dodging him when he's home otherwise he asks for his rent. It's a house of four decently sized rooms but no lounge, which actually works out well because the only communal areas are the kitchen and the bathroom. I don't cook much but I can shit up to three times a day. I've got a formal letter pushed under my door asking for the £350 rent for the month. Have I been here a month?
My other housemates are girls and both fairly fit. One's Japanese, or Chinese or possibly Korean. I can't even begin to pronounce her name, so there's an obvious language barrier which hinders proceedings. The other is English, but has a boyfriend. Sometimes i think I should’ve lived in halls, but I don't fancy sharing my living space with eight other people for a year. Before I leave I hide the mula in a tupperware box, sandwiched between two slices of white bread and put it in the freezer, for security's sake.

G’s sitting outside the Victory pub, basking in the sun under black Aves and a dirty white T-shirt.
“Get me a pint of Kronenburg will you?” He asks.
“You owe me a ton G.”
“Esser, don’t pollute this beautiful weather with bad debts and negative-nancy talk, go and get a couple of beers in.”
I can’t be arsed to argue so bring back two pints.
“What was going on last night in that bathroom?”
“What bathroom? When?”
“Last night, you, two girls, and the creepy-Face-Fuck-photographer.”
“Oh that, yeah, I don’t really know, it was all quite spontaneous.”
“It was all quite sordid, not to mention illegal.”
“Oh right, yeah, you’re gonna lecture me on legalities Esser.”
“Those girls can’t have been older than thirteen, not to mention they were so fucked they were barely sentient.”
“Yeah, because of your beans Esser.”
“Whatever, where was Page last night?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“How the fuck should I know? Probably on Tyni’s dick.”
“What? Tyni ain't tappin' that.” I say adamantly.
“Wake up Esser, he’s flavor of the month mate.”
“So Page gets on any cock that’s in vogue?”
“Pretty much mate. First it was the Beard, before his cock got put on lock down, and therefore now his cock isn’t flavor of the month anymore.”
“And so now it’s Tyni’s.”
“Bingo bludskin. Since the Beard’s been banged up, Tyni’s become high-profile, he’s got a powerful position, loadsa drugs and a malleable will, that’s pretty much the perfect play for Page.”
“Well, I’ve got none of those things, so I shouldn’t have shit to worry about.”
“That’s wishful thinking mate.” Says G spilling Kronenbourg after taking an over-enthusiastic gulp.
“What about you?” I say.
“What about me?” He answers.
“Your dick ever been flavor of the month with Page.”
“I wish. My dick’s never been flavor of the minute with Page, let alone a month.”
We keep drinking in to the early evening when Page rings me and invites us both to hers for a little gathering.

At Page's there's the usual crowd, Ben and L, Sarah, K.T and Not-Gay-Tom as well as a few heads i don't know. A guy in Ugg boots has a tattoo on his forearm that says "My mum should've had an abortion."
"How many pills have you got on you?" Page asks.
"I dunno, little less than a ton." I answer.
"Safe, we're going to a party in Hanover."

We go to a house party on top of Southover Street. Some track by Kings of Leon turns into Bloc Party’s ‘One Month Off’. The party engulfs us with Kodac moments of fleeting rapture. Scintillating colour, exhilarating ecstasy inducing empathy. But something's wrong, we've been here a few second now and people aren’t fighting each other to get at me.
“Hey Page, who here needs pills?” I say.
“I dunno, I’ll find out. Hey, Ben, L, can you find out who's catting.”
“Sure.” They reply together.
Piercings are in, fangs are in, blood is in. Freak chic ousts geek chic. The music morphs, d-Bridge turns into N-Type. A guy in a battered trillby who looks like Pete Doherty, chats up a girl who looks like Jamie Winstone. Page and I cruise to the kitchen and get a drink, knock back a couple of Smints each and move out into the garden. Ben and L are talking to Maths Class.
“You guys need any little ones?” I ask the circle.
No reply.
“Hey, who needs pills?” Page shouts.
“Nah, we’re alright Page, we’ve got these boss Batmans from Snail." and he holds up a yellow pill with a bat stamped in the centre. Fuck. He turns his back on us and continues his rant.
“Erol Alkan’s remix of Banquet is far superior to Bloc Party’s.”
“First of all, no it’s not, and second of all a remix can never be better than an original.”
“Of course it can, a remix avoids all the mistakes of the original.”
“Without the original the remix could never exist.”
Benga turns into Plactician.
"What the fuck we gonna do?" I ask Page.
"About what?" She replies.
"About the fact that we've got over a thousand little uns no one wants."
"Oh that, we'll just sell MDMA too."
"...What?" I ask flatly.
"What?" She replies.
"Next you'll want to sell crack and smack Page."
"Oh don't be so righteous Esser, you've made well over a grand now, selling beans. All I'm suggesting is that we up our game. So what if everyone's in love with these Batmans, we'll just dye our Smints red and offer bumper-pack goody bags of three beans and a gram of mandy, for like, half a ton."
"Jesus Page."
"Get over it, if you want to get rid of those pills then you've got to give people an incentive to buy them."
She's right. "Fine" I sigh. "So, how much mandy are we gonna need, how much is it gonna cost, and who the fuck are we gonna get it from?"
"Easy, Tyni."
"For fuck-sake Page. "
"I can get it off Tyni, no problem."
"That's what I'm afraid of. But I can't keep ticcing off Tyni to pay Tyni back, anyway we've only just ticced another thousand little uns, so our tab's at two grand already, there ain't no way he'll let it get any bigger."
"You let me worry about Tyni."
"Well if you can get all this off Tyni yourself, then what do you need me for?"
"I don't need you, I'm just trying to help you out."
"By making me a pusher man."
"Fuck off, I'm not forcing you Esser, you're in charge of yourself, you needed to make some money, and some friends, and I've helped you do that."
"I've made about as much money as I have debts."
"Don't be such a pessimist, you need to stop worrying so we can move forward. Now listen, how many beans have you got left all together?" She asks.
"I dunno like twelve hundred." I say, which is pretty much true.
"Ok, so lets say we sell three beans and a gram of mandy for fifty quid, yes?"
"No, that's not even a discount. We should sell three beans and a gram of mandy for forty quid."
"...Alright, but a dowey gram." She concedes.
"Whatever, three pills and a G for forty quid is a pretty tough temptation to resist."
"Near impossible." She says and stubs out her Marlboro Light.
"So we've got twelve hundred pills and we're selling three with a gram, so twelve hundred divided by three is four hundred."
"Four hundred." She repeats.
"That means we're gonna need four hundred grams of MDMA then Page. That's like, over fourteen wizards."
"So what? You've been handling thousands of pills Esser, what difference will a few wizards gonna make?" She says, fumbling with her lighter sparking another cigarette.
"It's still alotta mud."
"No it's not, we won't even need seven, I'll tic a few off Tyni just to get us started and people interested again."
I've got no interest in moving that much weight, but it doesn't seem like i've much other choice. I snort a few lines, triple drop and lose the next six hours.
































Chapter 10.

Page persuades me to go to Ben and L’s in the South Laines. It’s 2 in the afternoon and we haven’t slept. We sit in a smoky palace of pillows, cushions, rubbish and burnt-out potential. L is collecting all the empty crisp packets and methodically folding them into neat little squares. Amon Tobin turns into Erol Alkin. Stale weed smoke loiters in the air around us. There are dozens of cold cups of tea. Page is berating Kate Moss for not actually designing the clothes of her Top Shop line. Ben is biting the dirt out from under his nails and now I’m looking at the dirt under mine. G snores on the couch, the permanent marker on his face reads “I wish my wife was this dirty”. Sarah isn’t quite reading Peaches' new magazine "Disappear Here". You can’t polish a turd but you can give it glossy pages. An Eastenders omnibus heckles in the background.

We get the 21 bus up Elm Grove. On the upper deck a group of school girls heckle their friend.
"Try one, you don't know until you've tried it, take one with us at Devotion on Saturday."
"I dunno."
"It'll be ghetto-fucking-fabulous."
"Trust us Bex, just do it." Says another.
Just do it, reads a Nike billboard with an aspirational young athlete hurdling over a huge white swoosh. We get off the bus outside a primary school and walk up. The big horse-chestnut trees provide spots of shade on the pavement.
"I saw The Beard today, I think."
"You think? I think you're paranoid."
"I’m sure it was him."
"Yeah, so what? He probably just made bail." She says.
"So-fucking-what? If he's out he's gonna want my guts for garters."
"Who the fuck are you, Oliver Twist? No one talks like that, anyway the Beard won't risk it. He'll get someone else to do it."
"Oh, fucking brilliant."
"Calm down you little drama queen, don't make a scene, are we gonna still do this thing or what?" She's keen, like when you order food at a restaurant and it arrives too quickly.
"Yeah, course we are."
Tynis place is on the other side of Queens park so I wait round the corner by the Pepperpot. Page isn't that long but she could never have been quick enough. I sit on a bench by the bus stop. There's no doubt Tyni will know I'm involved. It's just whether Page gets out unscathed and with drugs. Darkness sets in. The street lamps come on, not all of them though. I smoke rollies and twiddle my thumbs. It's bitterly cold. I wrap my keffiyeh tighter around my neck. I don't hear her approach.
"You took your time."
"Gotta be polite don't I? Small talk and all that.” Her dark eyes melt into the darkness of the night.
"Oh yeah, what did you talk about?"
"You know, this an' that, he's putting on a night next week at the Event 2, we should go."
"Yeah right."
"Well I am."
“What’s his night called?”
“The Hip-Hop Apocalypse.” She says.
"Sounds promising. So, did you get the coke?"
"Of course i did."

Hip-hop night at the beach club. Page handles the drugs, i play the middle man but it's a different crowd tonight. The vibe is tense, screw faces dare each other to start, kissing their teeth in taunting acknowledgment. MF Doom turns into Necro. Comic book flat caps are in. Anger is in. Scowling is in. Hand gestures are in. Arthritic fingers twist and switch to spell out crew name acronyms and idiosyncratic mottos like 'throw your m's up'. No sign of G, V, Ben or L, no surprise though, this isn't their type of washing machine and i'm well out of my depth.
Page is in her element. As if guys needed another reason to throw themselves at her, now she's got hundreds of pills and a half ounce of coke. Girl dealers are in.
"Make yourself useful and get us a couple o' drinks Esser." She says craning her head over guys' shoulders.
I don't reply, just turn away and head straight for the bar.
"Long Islands!" She shouts behind me. Skinny Man turns into Stig of the Dump.
At the bar i have a couple Sambuca shots to myself and eye up a hip-hop honey in Adidas tracky b's and fresh Puma high-tops. I take the drinks back.
"Where's Falcon's?" She asks motioning to a thirty year old with his trousers round his ankles.
"Sorry, I.."
"That's pretty rude." She says sealing my fate as Falcon evils me into the background. I haven't made a friend there. Go to the toilet. With my dick out and almost letting rip i hear Tyni's voice boom down the corridor . Shit. Hold tight and shimmy into the nearest cubicle. Close the door. Graffiti tells me to leave the whales alone. The grouting is mouldy between the tiles and paint peels away from surfaces everywhere.
"Dont worry chap. She's definitely gonna get it tonight." Says Tyni to the other voice.
"She seems pretty busy with every guy out there mate."
"Trust me yeah she's on my leash."
"Oh yeah, like that new kid?"
"That cocky cunt is gonna get his comeuppance, believe blud."
They shake down zip up and move on. Thank God and oh fuck. I need to get out of here. Find Page and leave while i still have my teeth.

Page is slow jamming, surrounded by moody faces, i fight my way through the baggy clothes and bling typography.
"We need to go." I tell her.
"Fuck no, we need to stay."
"Tyni's looking for me and he's gonna grind my bones coz i don't have his bread."
"Don't flatter yourself Esser."
"I just heard him in the toilet, he wants to decapitate me."
"He's blagging, relax, he ain't gonna do nothing tonight."
I double drop. If i'm gonna get killed i might as well get fuckt beforehand. Keep an eye out from Tyni, keep my other eye on Page and now I can't see where I'm going. I don't remember levaing, I don't remember getting home and I don't remember falling asleep.

I wake up with missed calls and messages recieved. Drink a pint of water and go to Page's.

"How was the rest of last night?"
"It was ok."
"What did you do after the Beach?"
"Went back to Tyni's for a bit. Hung out with the hip-hop heavies and got high, then came home to sleep it off."
"Came home alone?"
"Yes." She answers.
Her ashtray is half full of half smoked B&H Gold cigarettes. Tyni.
“Page.”
“Yeah?” She calls from in the fridge.
“I was thinking of giving Tyni his money back, you seen him?”
“Why would I have seen him Esser?”
“No reason.” I say.
“And why the fuck would want to give him his money back?”

-----------------------------


I need solace. Refuge. Text V, "are u home?x" I don't know what to do with myself. I put on Bloc Party's "A weekend in the city" and alternate between sitting, smoking and pacing around my room generally doing nothing but waiting for V to reply.

"You look great." She says with sarcastic gusto.
"Gimme a break. I haven't been awake, been... sleeping for a few days now I think."
"Congratulations, you're clinically insane."
"...Wicked."
V's place is a blissful oasis of creature comforts and cool blues. Boards of Canada turn into Regina Spectre. Gonzo's rubbing himself affectionately against my calf, purring like a little furry motor boat. Her living room and centre table are covered with books, high-lighted print-outs and pages and pages of notes. It's very intimidating to someone who hasn't even thought of the title of his essay.
"I haven't even started mine yet." I murmur despondently in the direction of V.
"Well, I can still help you." She replies approaching from the kitchen with a cup of tea.
"...Thanks." I slurp through hot Earl Grey. There's a faint ringing in my ears which I'm doing my best to ignore. I curl up on the sofa in the foetal position with my head on V's lap. She's stroking my hair. I'm drifting between my breath and my heartbeat. I'm dreaming of that unspoiled beach with the perfect palm trees, but now Page is there, leaving footprints in the soft sand as she walks along the shore. V is following her and they both enter the crystal clear water hand-in-hand, breaking only to dive in as the camera zooms for a close up and the splash turns into a shower of bank notes that washes over the naked bodies of Page and V until all the money seeps away and Pages body sinks down and Vs body floats up, both of them out of sight and I'm left looking at an endless abyss of darkness. Must. Make. A. Plan.
I wake up soaking with sweat that's drenched the sofa. Classy.


I could just give Tyni his money back. But I don't want to. That sock stuffed full of notes is like an erogenous zone independent of my body. Giving away that grand would like losing a testicle and you know what happens to guys who lose a ball, they become half man, half gay.



She says looking down at the untied laces on her Air Force Ones.


I'm starting to think twice now every time I see the police. Page tells me i don't have to worry, although they’ve got the right to stop and search after paid-for bullshit signed the terrorism act of 2007, they won’t actually do it unless you’re a show-pony fool and attract the attention – at which point if you’re loaded like me, then you’re fucked. But if you keep a low profile, blend into the crowd and don’t act out, you can fly below the radar and operate undetected until your luck runs out.

There’s a dark green Ford Mondeo. I’ve seen it there on and off for the last few days, even so it could be anyones car, probably is just anyones car. Even if it is pigs why would they be watching little ol’ me? My life can’t be that interesting, why would they care, enough to spy? Unless, when the Beard was taken in, he mentioned my name. But why would he mention my name? He only met me an hour before his arrest, he doesn’t fucking know me. Which is exactly why he would give them my name. I’m the perfect fall guy, he’d just met me, doesn’t know me, and so knows no one else in Brighton knows me, or knew me. He wouldn’t think anyone would miss me. Just another missing person, another unsolved case. And the Beard isn’t stupid and certainly wouldn’t go down that easily, not without a fight. He had a nice set, established, respected, comfortable, there’s no way he’d let that slip, not when he could pass the buck to me. Well, fuck him. I’ll pass the buck back.





Nightmares on Wax turn into Air. Page’s phone rings. I don't look, just pick it up.
"Yeah? Pages phone."
"Where's Page? Who-the-fuck-is-that?" A gruff voice demands.
"It's Page, you fucking dumb-arse."
"Esser." Says the voice.
"Tyni." I reply. Shit.
"What you doin' answering Pages phone?"
"I'm her glamorous assistant. What you doing calling it?"
"What am I doin' calling it? I'm finding out when you two cheeky clowns are gonna pay me back two fucking grand."
"How soon is now?"
"What?"
"I'm getting right on that Tyni, shouldn't be too long n...
"Nah it won't be too fucking long coz it's already been too fucking long. You're gonna come to mine tonight and pay me the full two thousand, plus interest for the fucking headache you've caused me."
"Tyni, there's nothing i'd rather do than dance the night away with you and return your stacks of cash but i've got prior commitments."
"Well then, you'll have to uncommit won't you." He hangs up. Shit.


I go to parties in my sleep. I dream of vibrant colours and hair cut into geometric shapes. Fake Blood turns into Does it Offend You, Yeah?. I sell hundreds of pills and stack paper on automatic. Keyboard ties and piano belts are in. Sarcastic bling jewelry is in. It’s ok as long as it’s ironic. Situationism is in. Geek chic ousts freak chic. I’m told to read AdBusters. I’m told to shop at Cissy Mo. I’m confused.com. Cool is now deck. Fucking yanks. I can hear Bloc Party’s Mercury spiraling like a grotesque carnival melody into a black hole. You’re well vegan if you’re vegetarian but vegans are not in. Roland Barthes’ Death of the Author says, “The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture.” Discuss... Sleep walk through your waking life. Drop pills not bombs. Party. House. Club. House. Party. Uni?

I go to the beach, smoke a spliff and think. The surf laps at the shore, playing with the pebbles like an idea on the cusp of realization. I’ve got three thousand, six hundred and fifty pounds in cash, here in the proverbial flesh, which Page definitely knows about – and so, I can assume, Tyni also knows about. The Beard is back, although it’s quite possible he never went anywhere in the first place. I’m stuck between a rock, a hard place and a fit-as-fuck girl. Page is playing it pretty close to her pretty chest. I’m sure the three of them are triangulating, they all know my full name and where I live. It’s not looking good. On the up, I’ve still got most of the money, as well as three separate student accounts, one with twelve hundred pounds in, one with a little less than two hundred pounds in and one with twenty pounds in, all of them have maximum overdrafts of fifteen hundred pounds. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m due an installment of my student loan again soon. I should go on holiday, a long one. Buy a pair of espadrilles and walk the earth. Like a nomadic samurai.

At the party Chris Cunningham’s Rubber Johnny video is playing from a digital projector onto the main wall behind the DJ’s. More lo-fi photos are taken with old analogue cameras. Asher Roth turns into Dr Syntax. Nouveau Disco is in. Jamie Winston is in. Eastern beer is in. Tiger, Asahi and Chang. The is full of teens and tweens, hip-hoppers and spice boys, an odd mix, our culture is flat-lining. Page is wearing plano glasses. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ben and L pull. We get down like the economy. Emaciated cool. Translucency is in. Ben introduces a couple of girls, one of which looks kinda like Maya. Apparently they run a blog called CeleBitch. I’ve just ticked G another twenty pills although he already owes me a ton and is now dribbling from one pair of tits to another in quick succession. Live the dream. Don’t be afraid to merge. The DJ’s face is lit up by the glow from his MacBook Pro, he’s wearing one of those fluffy, long eared Russian winter hats and chewing on a glow-stick, which has subsequently split and the UV liquid runs over the corner of his mouth, glowing like semen under one of those special lamps you get on programs like Hotels from Hell. V isn’t here. I shouldn’t be here. Why the fuck am I here? Tynis party, Tyni, who I owe two thousand pounds to. This is a kamikaze mission if ever I saw one. Fuckit, give him the money I’ve got on me now, and hope it shuts him up for a while, hope.


We sit in a greasy spoon café called Tiffany’s on North Road, apparently it was featured in the Guardian or Observer for a ‘hidden treasures’ article. Page pushes her food round her plate and stares glassy eyed out the window. Bacon and sausage grease soaks into her toast.
“Tyni keeps texting me.” I say.
“…what do you expect? You owe him a grand.”
It’s true. If I was down a thousand pounds I’d want it back. But if I give it back to Tyni, that means I won’t have it. And why should he get it all, just for sitting on his fat, hairy arse, I put all the hard graft in, well, not hard graft, but you know. My head’s foggy with thoughts. I should sterilize a needle and remove these splinters from my mind. Page hasn’t actually asked me for any money yet. She said she wanted twenty percent and she’s not the type of girl to say no to large amounts of money. And by those calculations I owe her four hundred quid. Why hasn’t she asked me for it? I need to hide my money better, like in the freezer or something. I’m chewing on a piece of fat stuck between my teeth like a delicious string of salty dental floss. Jehst turns into Taskforce but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Trucker caps are in. Dan Deacon is in. Stripes are in. Page is crushing single grains of sugar with the back of her painted nail. A blonde goes by with one of those pointlessly little dogs poking out of her Louis Vitton handbag.
“I’m worried about G.” I say.
“Why?”
“Last night when I left the party, I found him sleeping under a Ford Fiesta.
“So, maybe it was comfy.”
“He’s a fucking mess Page… and he owes me a couple hundred.”
“So get the money off him. He’s just being G, he’s probably fine.” She says and looks up at the empty blue sky biting her sugary nails.


I’ve never seen Page so focused. Aphex Twin's Druqs album rings in the background as she wafts around the kitchen padding barefoot on the cold monochrome tiles both her butt cheeks bouncing alternately. I feel guilty for interrupting such a rare moment of her majestic isolation, lit by the soft glow of fairy lights and a faint whiff of chemicals permeates the air. On the stove a saucepan of water starts to boil tempestuously. Page empties a resealable sandwich bag of grey brown powder onto a white china plate beside the stove. She spreads the crystal mound out evenly with a gleaming steak knife and places the plate on top of the saucepan as the water bubbles tempestuously. She runs her finger tips under the tap and drops water onto the powder.
“What are you doing?” Asking when I already know.
“Magic.” She replies. “Watch one ounce of K turn into two.”








“Relax Esser, have a line.” Protests Tyni.
“Alright, yeah thanks.”
Tyni’s room is big but crampt with records and hip-hop memorabilia. He passes a CD case for Jay Z’s the Black Album with some generous lines cut on it, more grey than any coke I’ve seen before. Fuckit, it goes up a treat.
“Can you mix, Esser?” He asks.
“No Tyni.” I reply.
“I think you should try.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Just put a record on, mate.” He says
“…Alright.”
I stand up, whatever I’ve just taken hits me like a ton of contraband bricks, I feel like Bambi learning to walk. There was K in that line, and coke, but more K.
“Pick a record Esser.”
I do so. Bloc Party’s ‘Mercury’. Place it carefully over the centre pin on the left turntable, delicate as a china plate and watch it spin round and round, mesmorised by the continually turning label.
“Esser? What’re you narcoleptic? Put the fucking needle on.” Tyni’s voice jolts me into action. I pick up the thin plastic arms of the cartridge and drop it onto the vinyl. It scratches loudly amplified though the speakers, tearing at my ear drums and confidence.
“Careful dickhead” he says, “put it on 45bpm.”
I do so and the record slows to the correct pace and starts to make sense. Lyrics fill the room. Mercury, merc, mercury’s in, mercury’s in retrograde. This is not the time. The time is suddenly. Tyni’s laughing. The grotesque carnival horns bear down on top of industrial beats. I swivel round to find my chair, now I’m sitting but the room is spinning. Images twirl and blur. The song stops, it ends.

“What you doing?” Tyni asks putting out half a cigarette.
"I'm counting out five hundred pound for you."
"Five-fucking-hundred? Are you ‘aving a fucking bubble Esser? It's two grand you cheeky little prick."
"I told you I don't have it all yet."
"Alright, so if I was to find out where you live and check your bedroom, I wouldn’t find a healthy wad of my money there, 'ey Duddleyheath?" He says waiting, pleased with himself for knowing my first name.
I'm perturbed, but I return the wait, skinning up a rollie.
"What the fuck is that anyway?" He says, "A double barreled first name?! You ostentatious little cunt, even if you haven't sold enough pills, you've obviously got a few bob behind ya."
"I'm giving you all I've got Tyni."
"Bullshit. I know you students, and I know you've got your loans and your NUS discounts, you've got bare-fucking-cash so why does it feel like my pockets have holes in ‘em."
It's a fair request but it's a thirst that I won't quench.
"Here." I pass him a wrap of twenty pound notes and chuck my dog end in a cup of old coffee.
A door opens and in enters the Beard. I fucking knew it.
"Alright Esser." Says the Beard.
"I've been better."
"I bet you ‘ave mate."
"He says this is all he's got Beard."
"What? Five hundred fucking pounds Esser? Are you taking the fucking michael?"
I remain silent.
"Are they new hightops Esser? Or are you just well-OCD about keeping your trainers box-fresh?" Asks Tyni.
...
"And those Levis look straight off the shelf Esser, they're pretty fly aren't they Tyni?” Says the Beard watering a plant with bong water.
"Pretty fly for a white guy.” Replies Tyni. “So how much did all this Gucci linen set you back Esser?"
"You know… I lost count." I say.
“You did huh? That’s funny coz we’ve lost count of how much money you owe us now.”
“Two grand.” I say.
“Yeah, two grand, now you’ve only given us five hundred and you’ve done it wearing a hundred pound swagger, so you can understand us being a little bit upset with your tardiness in paying, and your severe lack of tact.”
“I’ll try to improve my punctuality.” I say, watching Tyni pace around behind the Beard cracking his knuckles. Page enters, sits down next to the Beard and looks over her plano glasses smiling at me.
“You do that Esser, and while you do, why don’t you try to find that other fifteen hundred hiding in your room on Viaduct road.” Says the Beard and I look up to his grin and Page snorting a line from a mirror he holds up for her. He continues.
“With those thousand pills I gave you that fateful Friday night you should have made at least two thousand pounds, that’s assuming you were generous and selling five pills for ten pounds. However, in reality I think Page pushed you to sell three pills for ten pounds, am I right?”
I stay motionless.
“I thought so, therefore at three for a tenner you stood to make exactly three thousand three hundred and thirty three pounds and thirty three pence recurring, which you must have made by now coz Page has already ticced another thousand pills on your behalf. So, with that thousand Page ticced, on top of the thousand you ticced you could’ve potentially made a little over six thousand six hundred and sixty six pounds. Therefore what both Tyni and I are wondering, is…Why-the-fuck-am-I-holding-a-measley-five-hundred-fucking-quid?!”








G isn’t picking up his phone and is ignoring my texts. I’m avoiding Tyni’s calls and texts and I’m pretty sure Page is screening me. My room is cold. My body aches. Aches of living. Living in the red, living in debt to dealers and landlords and The Man. But I’m not living, I’m merely existing, as a simulation of myself. I’d feel claustrophobic if the open invitation of suicide wasn’t always there. I’m not saying I want to kill myself, just that I’d feel very trapped if the option of escape wasn’t permanently available.
I need to go to uni. I need to put some of that fucking money in the bank. I haven’t got any socks left. I feel like a broken toy. Dick texts me but I can’t be doing with that right now. I want to hide away from the world. Stick my head in the sand, except Brighton beach is all pebbles. I’m strung out, a frayed copper wire.




THE END?

I walk down Ditchling Rise under the bridge. A train clatters past, rattling the rafters and dispensing dozens of flapping pigeons that fly from their clandestine coups. There’s an early morning mist coming up from the sea and sweeping round my waist as I wade home. It’s that strange time when there’s a brief heitus in the city when everything’s stopped. Every city has this time, these moments, you just have to find the right hour and take your own personal picture of the streets rarely still. Blinking seems to last for minutes. I hardly feel the first punch but it puts me down to my knees. I try to stand up but can barely steady myself. Bad times. Tyni’s big angry blur punches me again and I fall backwards, head hitting the curb. As I literally lie in the fucking gutter there’s a smaller Beard blur laughing over me.
I wake up. Hot student nurse. Beeping. Medical pads leach my body.
“…Ngh. Why am I in the hospital?”
“Your brain was bleeding.... What were you doing last night?”She asks.
“…Having a good time?”
I need to go home, check my stash, which I’m trying to deny is already long gone. I try to get up.
“Whao, you can’t go anywhere, you need to rest.”
“…I need to piss.”
She passes me an insultingly small cylindrical tube made out of thick cardboard.
“…You’re fucking joking me yeah?”
“No, yeah.” She replies sarcastically. “It’s either the tube, or the wheelchair.” Her eyes look behind me and I turn to see a steel, cardboard, wheelchair monstrosity, the epitome of humiliation. Well I’ve certainly arrived somewhere. Do I piss in the tube or the wheelchair? What a conundrum.

I slip out as soon the nurse is around. I get a taxi back to mine, still wearing the plastic bag slippers from the hospital. My front door's open and the lock’s hanging off the frame. The place is eerily quiet. Where are my house mates? My room’s a mess but not as trashed as I thought. They’ve definitely been here, but they knew where to look. I rifle frantically through my sock draw. Nothing. Over a grand in cash and all the pills. Disappear from here. Revenge is in? Is fleeing ever cool? Lie in my robbed and raped hovel. Dig out the end of a spliff from a full ashtray. Dull the senses. Must. Make. A. Plan.
I come to around 1am. Check my phone. Ben an L are at a party near the Level. “We want you here.” Of course you do. Shower. Put on Arctic Monkey’s Brainstorm. I need to go. Leave. Emigrate. Fly south for the winter. I’ve got over a thousand pounds in 3 different student accounts, each of them have a maximum overdraft limit of £1500, plus I’ve got another installment of my student loan coming soon, I think. That lot should get me by for a bit but I want that grand back for spending money. I didn’t have all that fun for nothing, I want the money to show for it. So I pocket a can of mace, chuck 3 pairs of H&M boxers and socks, 2 Topshop T-shirts and a pair of olive green Adidas bottoms into my Eastpak and put on my red and black DC hightops. And head to the house party.


The electric pink glow from a 2nd floor window marks my target. A dozen Vespas and single-speed bikes are stood on the street outside. I dial 999 and tell the police there’s a fire at Richmond Terrace opposite the Level and that thousands of pounds of drug money is going up in flames if they don't hurry. I then call 999 again and tell the fire brigade the same thing. I don't know the average response time for Brighton's emergency services, but im guessing it's over 5 minutes, which is plenty.
Isn’t this the Beard’s place? Or Tyni’s? Little Boots’ Stuck on Repeat turns into the Ting Tings’ That’s Not my Name. Hollow faces are washed in green luminescence and their thrashing bodies flick the same trendy fashions. We're drawn to a back bedroom. Don’t knock, kick the door down. I don’t know how I’m right but I’m glad I wasn’t wrong. The Beard, Tyni and another little crony we don’t know scramble out of their wombs. We spray them all with the mace, my index finger locked down over the cap, showering them in burning water until the cans empty. Their agonistic howls punctuate the dark dubstep and sound like amazing samples. Twenties and tens are strewn everywhere, but there’s 3 nice wads stacked on the desk, light by the glow of iTunes. We have no idea how much cash I’m shoving into my Eastpak but it feels like more than enough. I kick the Beard in the stomach and stamp on Tyni’s already unfortunate face, slamming the door on wheezing, gargles and deep elliptical basslines.
The whole scene only lasted 30 seconds and no one throughout the rest of the house is any wiser. The party hilarity would have drowned out any sound of the brutalities of the self delivered justice system. We glide between bodies and camera flashes, shoes and insecurity. Umbrellas are in. Revenge is in. Reckless-fucking-abandon is in. I’m that intoxicated fly-on-the-wall, I’m that bloated sense of self-importance. I’m that air of doubt. I’m that fist line of the night. I’m that shadow disappearing. We’re crossing the Level. Head for the train station.

I/we.

Everyone rolls a different spliff.








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