me, sitting alone at the bar of a public house, wanting to lose myself for a few hours, would find myself distracted by the fact that I couldn’t even get the right quality of whisky. You may laugh, you may not understand, but if you work by the assumption, as I do, that every second, every decision, every action, should be taken as seriously as if it were your only one, ever, then I fail to see why drinking myself to oblivion should be done on bad whisky. But here I was, anyway, left alone at last and trying to hide myself amongst the fellow shadows and creatures of the night whilst I searched for an answer that was too slow in coming. Sylvia, oh Sylvia, why did you doubt me? Where you may have thought of my life blood running into a dry stream, you at least always knew that I was true, but now you, as well, even you, doubt me. Lou was too caught up by the tragedy of her husband to think in straight lines, that I could understand, although her venom may have been hard to take, but you, Sylvia, for everything that we went through, couldn’t you see that I was telling the truth? You did go there, I grant you, and you did post bail, thank you, but I just needed to see you trust me, not to see that flicker of doubt grow into a fireball that sent me spiralling down.
Even Beryl, who for reasons that I still don’t fully understand has been trusting, supportive and loyal, even she began to doubt as we stood facing each other in the rain, as you pointed at me and walked away as if it was me, as if it was my fault that all this has happened. Are you sure, she asked, not bothering to search for shelter, are you sure you saw him? Listen, Sylvain, that G6, it plays havoc with your mind, you forget things, you’re not sure what you’re doing, you know, maybe you got things confused, maybe…. And she trailed off leaving me to draw my own conclusions, but I knew what I’d seen and I knew what had happened and I’d sampled enough drugs in my life to be able to distinguish between what was real and what was fantasy, what was right from what was wrong and if I were to press any button or light any candle or say any prayer then I would know it, I would know it now and I would have known it then. So, write your rules, and I will follow them. Write the script and I will play the part to perfection. Write your song and I will cry harder than anyone, because I am everyone and everyone is me and I can walk into the void and become it but I will remain a spark in the sky that burns bright with life and not death. There, by myself, I stayed alone as one by one they deserted me because the fiction is easier to accept than the truth, when the truth points at things you don’t want to see. Lou said I was a killer, Lou said I was dangerous and a freak and I killed Mark because I was jealous, because she couldn’t face the horror of the truth that her husband wasn’t who she thought he was, that he was a maniac and a killer and she had lived with him, slept in the same bed as him, made plans with him and yet she didn’t know him at all; instead it was far easier to look at Sylvain, always the misfit, with his broken dreams and his broken marriage and to hell with friendship, and then it starts to infect everything like a virus slowly slipping out of control, worming its way into people’s thoughts, of course into those mad policemen who would do anything for a quick fix, even into Beryl who stays loyal despite herself, and of course into dear, darling Sylvia who looks at me and what I have become and feels enough doubt to break me again and again as … if … that … wasn’t … enough.
What a shithole. I turned to shoo away another hanger on before I realised that it was him. I mean, seriously, Sylvain, I thought your tastes had improved. You know, this is why I stopped hanging out with you, because you used to take me to shithole pubs serving crap lager and weak wine, and you used to think it was the height of sophistication to have a prawn cocktail followed by chicken kiev. I mean, I know we shouldn’t judge by superficial things but there is a limit, Sylvain, we all have to maintain our standards. I mean, you’re a little shit, aren’t you, Sylvain. Telling everyone that I was – let me get this right – petty and small minded. Did I nail it? Did I get it, my friend? Really, I mean, really? Did you ever look in the mirror? I mean, poor, sad Mark with his corporate job and his corporate salary and his petty life, that was nothing against what you had achieved, with your fuck ups and your alternative lifestyles and then your super spy status and your clever inventions and your oh so unpredictable personality. Didn’t you try and make yourself superior, every time we met, didn’t you have to drop a few hints about the latest gadget or invention you were working on, but how we mustn’t tell anyone, lest maybe one of my lawyer friends finds out and then oh where will you be, maybe go to jail for treason. And I would laugh and Lou would laugh and Sylvia would laugh and they both felt sorry for you, but I just thought you were a jerk. A stuck up, unappreciative jerk. I looked after you, Sylvain, each time you fell, I picked you up and got you back on your feet and, hey, I even introduced you to Sylvia, though I’m not sure she’d thank me for it now. And you feel you reward that by throwing it back in my face, ha, even trying it on with my good lady wife. And I have the narcissistic tendencies! But you know, I thought about this long and hard, and you know what I realised. You’re jealous. That’s the truth, isn’t it. With all your wacky ways and attention seeking, you’ve always been jealous of who I am and what I have and you don’t, you will never let it go. And that’s not even the worst of it, is it? The worst of it is that you think we’re the same, you and I. You think that just because we have a shared history and the same friends, just because we inhabit the same social circle, just because we’ve fucked the same people… you look at me and think that could have been you, don’t you, if only life had twisted that way instead of this. Well, get over it. You made your own choices and you have to live by them.
The whisky’s good, I murmured, and Mark grimaced when he tried it, but he carried on his diatribe. So, don’t come to me and ask me why, Sylvain. Don’t weep on my shoulder like you always used to. Take it like a man, go back to the police and confess. Go and talk to Lou and confess. Weep on Sylvia’s knee and confess. You killed Angel and you killed Anna and all those countless other girls, hell, maybe you even killed me, who knows, only you, but it’s time, Sylvain. Stand up and be counted. But... I started, looking at him, his handsome features and his easy charm, and I felt completely overwhelmed by him. Come on, he mocked, out with it.
But I don’t understand, I managed, I don’t understand what you’re saying. Why did you… And Mark’s whole demeanour changed, his eyes hooded over and his face became dark and he pulled himself up at the bar, and ordered another whisky. Hell, bring us the whole bottle. Look, I wanted to set the record straight on one thing. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t mean to set you up, it’s just that when you suddenly turned up in my hotel room – I mean, just appeared, out of thin air, in my hotel room, I admit I was a little shocked at first, but it did turn out rather nicely, don’t you think, it seemed like such poetic justice. Actually, though, I do have to commend you – that invisibility cloak, it works rather well, doesn’t it. (Despite myself, I bristled at his use of this name). Of course, you need to set it up properly, but, oh, Sylvain, you made it so easy for me, didn’t you? I mean, it was almost as if you wanted me to do it. I just slipped it on and slipped you a little something and sat back and watched, oh, Sylvain, it was so easy. Mark refilled both our glasses, and then he looked at me seriously. But then you had to get that Rottweiler on me, didn’t you? I’ll credit you, Sylvain, I’m not sure where you found her but she is persistent, and she is well connected. I did warn you, Sylvain, I did warn you to call her off, but you wouldn’t…
You didn’t give me a chance, I shouted, hitting my glass by accident and sending the whisky flying. The barman looked at it, then at me, and I’m not sure I liked the look, but he knelt down and cleaned it up and then wiped down the bar, before putting a new glass on the table and filling it from the now half empty bottle. I realised that my hand was shaking as I picked up the new glass and, closing my eyes, put it to my lips.
You didn’t give me a chance, I whispered. I told her, I told her to stop, but you didn’t give me a chance. Mark’s face cracked into a broad smile. Ah, well,
you know how things go sometimes. I … well, things just got a little out of hand, I just went there to have a chat to her. And I must admit I was curious… I only had vague recollection of this girl that you had been obsessed by, although I did hear that she had gone off the rails somewhat. Maybe a kindred spirit, after all? No, I think not, Mark chuckled. In any case, as I said, I was curious to see what had happened to her, whether she still had that charm and that lightness, and also of course what she thought about your fantasies about you and her. It was a fascinating discussion, I must admit… Mark leaned close into me… apparently (he was whispering now) … apparently, you went to see her, what, only four or five days ago, you met her at a restaurant. Wait! This will make you laugh – apparently, you were late! I mean, very late, over an hour late, just imagine! For the lady of your adolescent dreams, you couldn’t even turn up on time, doesn’t that really sum you up!
Mark started laughing, so much that he even had to wipe tears away