swallow it, he takes a swig of Bud and it slips away.
‘What was that?’ Jack asks, his bleary mind aware that something peculiar just happened.
‘An Elephant,’ says Chris. ‘A White Elephant. They’re supposed to be dead good.’
‘An elephant,’ Jack repeats. ‘I don’t understand. What d’you mean, an elephant?’
‘A pill, Dodger, that’s what I went to get. We’ve just had ours. I thought Steve had told you.’
‘I thought you were going to tell him,’ Steve the mechanic protests. ‘It was your present.’
It’s evident from Jack’s face that he’s not happy. Chris puts his arm around him: ‘Look, I’m sorry, mate, I should have said something earlier. I mean, I thought you knew. You being the bad boy, I assumed you’d be up for it.’
Jack doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell them that he’s on licence for life; that any minor infringement of the law could put him back inside. He can’t say that he’s spent seven years, longer if you count the homes, trying to stay away from drugs. That Terry told him there were people who would use any blemish on his prison record to prove hewasn’t reformed. How could he explain that he’s already dazed beyond belief with novelty, and battered by the alcohol, and that this night had been the best night of his life, but now it’s suddenly not?
But he doesn’t have to say all this because his eyes tell a tale; and Chris is drunk not stupid.
‘Look, it’s cool, Jack, it’s no big deal. We’ll be with you, we’re all in the same boat, and it’ll be wicked. Nothing bad’s going to happen. What could happen? Losing a bit of control never killed anyone.’
‘Yeah, no one dies on pills, unless they take like twenty and dance for two days and die of exhaustion,’ Steve the mechanic joins in. ‘Or they drink too much and drown, or not enough and overheat their brains. Or…’
Jack doesn’t know Steve the mechanic well enough to tell if he’s being very dry or very dense; but Chris says, ‘Steve!’ and raises an eyebrow, which is sufficient to shut him up.
‘It’ll be fine, Dodger,’ Chris says. ‘But we’re all getting a bit old for that peer group pressure shit. If you really don’t want to that’s no big deal either – go to the toilet and make yourself sick. Just bring that baby right up.’ Chris laughs. ‘You’re looking a bit worse for wear anyway, a nice chunder’ll probably do you good.’
The DJ shouts, ‘Scream if you want to go faster!’ like they used to on the waltzers at the fairground. People do scream. There’s a roar from the sunken garden; but Jack realizes that he doesn’t want to go any faster. That everything is moving quite quick enough for the moment.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I think I am going to go to the toilet.’
‘That’s cool,’ says Chris. ‘It’s not a problem.’ And he is clearly doing his best to organize his soused features into an expression of brotherly concern.
Jack was worried that he wouldn’t be able to make himselfsick. As soon as he smells the toilet bowl he realizes these fears were unfounded. Before he can even get his fingers near his mouth a sudden retch brings a beer-based stew gushing into the scarcely cleaner water.
‘Someone’s having a good time tonight!’ a stranger’s voice cackles from beyond the cubicle.
Jack spits to try and remove the swinging strands of mucus from his mouth. They cling like creepers, though, and he has to use the back of his hand to wipe them away, putting a stripe across a shirt cuff at the same time. He peers into the khaki swamp at the bottom of the bowl, hunting for the elephant. He can’t see anything pill-like, but the effort of interrogating the organic matter so closely brings forth another volley of vomit.
The sinks outside are coated in cups and screwed-up paper towels, but the water tastes flinty and fresh. Jack washes his hands and his face, and tries to clean off
‘What was that?’ Jack asks, his bleary mind aware that something peculiar just happened.
‘An Elephant,’ says Chris. ‘A White Elephant. They’re supposed to be dead good.’
‘An elephant,’ Jack repeats. ‘I don’t understand. What d’you mean, an elephant?’
‘A pill, Dodger, that’s what I went to get. We’ve just had ours. I thought Steve had told you.’
‘I thought you were going to tell him,’ Steve the mechanic protests. ‘It was your present.’
It’s evident from Jack’s face that he’s not happy. Chris puts his arm around him: ‘Look, I’m sorry, mate, I should have said something earlier. I mean, I thought you knew. You being the bad boy, I assumed you’d be up for it.’
Jack doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell them that he’s on licence for life; that any minor infringement of the law could put him back inside. He can’t say that he’s spent seven years, longer if you count the homes, trying to stay away from drugs. That Terry told him there were people who would use any blemish on his prison record to prove hewasn’t reformed. How could he explain that he’s already dazed beyond belief with novelty, and battered by the alcohol, and that this night had been the best night of his life, but now it’s suddenly not?
But he doesn’t have to say all this because his eyes tell a tale; and Chris is drunk not stupid.
‘Look, it’s cool, Jack, it’s no big deal. We’ll be with you, we’re all in the same boat, and it’ll be wicked. Nothing bad’s going to happen. What could happen? Losing a bit of control never killed anyone.’
‘Yeah, no one dies on pills, unless they take like twenty and dance for two days and die of exhaustion,’ Steve the mechanic joins in. ‘Or they drink too much and drown, or not enough and overheat their brains. Or…’
Jack doesn’t know Steve the mechanic well enough to tell if he’s being very dry or very dense; but Chris says, ‘Steve!’ and raises an eyebrow, which is sufficient to shut him up.
‘It’ll be fine, Dodger,’ Chris says. ‘But we’re all getting a bit old for that peer group pressure shit. If you really don’t want to that’s no big deal either – go to the toilet and make yourself sick. Just bring that baby right up.’ Chris laughs. ‘You’re looking a bit worse for wear anyway, a nice chunder’ll probably do you good.’
The DJ shouts, ‘Scream if you want to go faster!’ like they used to on the waltzers at the fairground. People do scream. There’s a roar from the sunken garden; but Jack realizes that he doesn’t want to go any faster. That everything is moving quite quick enough for the moment.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he says. ‘I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I think I am going to go to the toilet.’
‘That’s cool,’ says Chris. ‘It’s not a problem.’ And he is clearly doing his best to organize his soused features into an expression of brotherly concern.
Jack was worried that he wouldn’t be able to make himselfsick. As soon as he smells the toilet bowl he realizes these fears were unfounded. Before he can even get his fingers near his mouth a sudden retch brings a beer-based stew gushing into the scarcely cleaner water.
‘Someone’s having a good time tonight!’ a stranger’s voice cackles from beyond the cubicle.
Jack spits to try and remove the swinging strands of mucus from his mouth. They cling like creepers, though, and he has to use the back of his hand to wipe them away, putting a stripe across a shirt cuff at the same time. He peers into the khaki swamp at the bottom of the bowl, hunting for the elephant. He can’t see anything pill-like, but the effort of interrogating the organic matter so closely brings forth another volley of vomit.
The sinks outside are coated in cups and screwed-up paper towels, but the water tastes flinty and fresh. Jack washes his hands and his face, and tries to clean off
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