Others have told him that when they come down it is slow. They can feel it coming and the search for more begins the second the wave crests. That they have time. He doesn't know if it's his metabolism or his brain chemistry, but he never has warning. He never has time to prepare. Never has time to chase down the next one (as if he needed to, he has enough money to supply himself into a coma if he didn't need to keep up some semblance of appearance lest his brother become nosier than usual.)
No.
For him, one moment he's floating on, as his flat mate puts it so eloquently, "floating on a cloud made of tits," with his mind mercifully shut off and doing nothing more invasive than recalling symphonies, and the next he is wide awake, sweaty and nauseous, every part of his damnable body screaming with some form of need.
When he was younger and still mildly interested in certain things other boys his age found compelling, he'd developed a fascination with the mega villain in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles series. Not Shredder. Shredder was a small time thug who focused on the wrong thing. No. It was always Krang. The big brain, who was free of his body, inhabiting an exo-suit that made him do the things he needed, with none of the nuisances that come along with having a body made of meat and fluid. It was brilliant. When he was allowed to join in on the other boys' games, he never wanted to be one of the turtles (though he had by that time developed an interest in martial arts) or the wise old rat, Splinter (he lacked the warmth or kindness.) No, it was always Krang. Which was perfect, really. Because none of the boys wanted to be Krang anyway, because he was just a big brain in a can and wasn't cool. They actually considered Shredder to be cooler. The twats.
Of course, they hadn't always let him play. And other times he was just too busy, researching furiously, desperate to know if it were possible. To be a brain without a body. It seemed the ultimate goal of evolution, and if it were possible he'd be the first to volunteer.
Then one day he realized, eyes growing wide, that his observations needed more than his brain, which was, after all, merely a processing center for stimuli. He relied on his other senses completely. And besides, there were some things that he thoroughly enjoyed that required a body to fully experience. Music, for one. He wasn't sure he could live without that. And the lemon tarts that his old nanny sent him occasionally from Cornwall. The smell of old books. A scalding, solitary shower at home after the tepid water and boyish shenanigans of his hall shower. The electrical feeling that ran from the crown of his head to his fingertips when he worked out a particularly pressing problem. And cats. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, cats were nice. So for all of that, he could ignore the body's more annoying demands, at least until they screamed to be met.
So for a while he turned his mind to researching monasteries and convents, dismayed to find that living a purely ascetic life meant a life shunning the outside world. He needed the outside world or he would go mad in his own head. So what then? Christians believe that the body is a temple. He simply created a monastery of his own body.
That had lasted until puberty hit him like the combined forces of the Spanish Inquisition and the Reformation. He grew almost a foot between age 12 and 13, but only gained 10 pounds. His curly mop of hair had to be closely cropped because if left to come in contact with his forehead for even a few minutes, it left in its wake a trail of angry red spots. His voice, which had sung so beautifully during chapel was suddenly as incontrollable as a scared rabbit, and why, oh why did his penis decide that everything from scoring a run in cricket to getting a glimpse of the candy shop lady's slip to just the right breeze meant it was the perfect time to make its presence known?
And of course, of course, this would be just the time they decided to let them interact with the girls from the sister school. The girls were easy enough to avoid at the fundraisers and carnivals. But oh, cotillion. The word is still hateful to him and only brings up feelings of horrible embarrassment, apologies, crushed toes, gangly limbs and thinking about anything, anything but the way his partner's hair smelled, desperately trying to will away the hateful erections.
Amazingly enough, he's been told in recent years, mainly at the insipid debutante balls that cotillion was the training ground for, that he's an excellent dancing partner.
Somehow, during his teens, he managed to fumble his way into a few girls' bedrooms, usually town girls. This was mostly because it was easy for him to deduce the right things to say to get him there. It was often harder to deduce the right things to say to get him out. Though he began to pick up on certain signs in girls that they were as disinclined toward romantic affairs as he, and he trawled those water exclusively.
Once at uni, his hormones settled just enough to allow him spare moments to think, and he set about again to live the life of the ascetic. He shunned sex in all its forms, ate only when lack of nutrients affected his mind, and slept only when he was on the edge of delirium. He originally thought he'd study neuroscience and psychology, but was also drawn to biology, chemistry, and music. He dabbled around with it all, often dropping into classes he wasn't enrolled in, only to be shunted out when he was a complete tit to the professor or teacher's assistant. He attended the classes he was actually enrolled in only often enough to stay in them and have a passing knowledge of what was expected. He kept his grades up just enough to keep his mother and brother out of his affairs. But then came the incident with the stolen head, and nothing even in her power or pockets could keep him from getting sent down.
It was at the next school that he discovered drugs. He'd previously dismissed them as a hedonistic distraction, much like sex, but soon became curious about stimulants. It was true that cocaine was fantastic for brain work, but it came with almost instantaneous cravings for more, which was incredibly distracting. How can one think when the second after you feel the rush, while your head is still very much feeling the rush, you are immediately thinking about how long it will be before you can safely take another hit? He also viewed a few CT scans of chronic cocaine abusers and decided that the collateral damage wasn't worth it. His experiment with cocaine only lasted a month, and he now only uses it when he can't get out of bed after a particularly long heroin bender.
He is between schools at the moment, having been sent down from the last one for not keeping his marks up or attending classes. He'd spent most of his time at his flat, in the library, or skulking around the labs. Now he spends his time back in London hanging around at University College, trying to befriend a medical student or two, sometimes popping in to audit a class. (Invariably getting kicked out after one or two sessions) He sometimes wanders over to City University. Biding his time until Mother either gets him into a new school or gives up and banishes him abroad for volunteer work.
Today he has been thinking on those lemon tarts that Miss Henley used to send him when he was in boarding school, and makes his way to a bakery on Moreland St. He doesn't necessarily want a tart, because nothing tastes like those. But sweet is the only thing that will work right now. It's an interesting side effect, one he hasn't studied enough. He can't remember the last time he ate something savory.
She is sitting in a table for two in a corner near the fireplace. One cup of tea, milky, gone cold, taking a tiny sip from it every five minutes or so, trying to make it last. Athletic calves wrapped in tall buttery grey leather Cole Haan lace up boots and black cashmere tights. The boots are three seasons old and have been re-soled at least once, and the tights are starting to show quite a bit of wear about the knees. Plain black pleated skirt (vintage-school uniform-charity shop) and a faded concert tour shirt (Pearl Jam, 1991 US Tour, [had she gone to the States to see them or did she just want people to think so? They came to Europe soon after.]
Curly dark hair pulled up into a massive, wild ponytail, several streaks of purple well placed throughout. Not a professional dye job but her friend had a way with the bottle. A few loose curls frame a pretty, yet decidedly petulant face dominated by fierce, dark brown eyes. Her skin is the color of the tea she is sipping. She is swotting furiously , poring over flash cards for a criminology exam. Third year, comes from money, parents don't approve of her course of study so they cut her off. The only "new" clothes she acquires are cast offs or from the charity shops, and occasionally she has to sell something very nice. She left home with lots of shoes and party dresses. She'll never sell the plaid Westwood jacket that's hanging from her chair, though. (1970s, it belonged to a favorite aunt.) New- ish Discman, gift from the aunt? Or a boyfriend? Girlfriend? She's got a photo of Eddie Vedder glued to one of her notebooks. (Beginning to look like she had flown to the States to see them.)
He decides she's interesting enough to talk to. He is also craving a hit madly and is forcing his body to hold off. Heroin has been an experiment in fighting the body's cravings. He has mastered sex and food and companionship, but he wants to take it to the limit and see just how much he can put his body through and still be able to think. Or so he tells himself. He is able to detect lies in others almost instantaneously, but remains masterful in his ability to lie to himself. He inventories his current symptoms: Slightly shaky. A bit sweaty. Mild nausea. The beginning twinges of muscle aches. He will be fine for a while. His person and clothing are clean. Faded blue jumper, sleeve ends unraveling a bit, slightly baggy jeans hanging just at his hips. Doc Martens. He is frayed but presentable. (He has not been cut off-yet-he just prefers to spend his money on other things.) He looks like a student, and any outward symptoms could be attributed to being overcaffeinated and underslept. He visits the media centre of his Mind Palace momentarily, flipping through the musical catalog until he finds what he needs.
He orders a hot cup of tea and two sticky buns and makes his way to her. He is momentarily distracted by a couple, slumped in the corner over hot chocolate and a single sweet roll (high as kites with plenty more where the first hit came from.) But no, it's not time yet. It's manageable and he's going to prove it.
"It's a bit chilly by the door," he says, gesturing toward the only empty table. "May I join you?"
She looks at him for approximately three seconds, taking in his hands (shaking) , the dark circles under his eyes,(bruise like) the sheen of sweat on his forehead (odd since he says he's chilly), the state of his clothing and the sweets in his hand.
"I don't date junkies," she says, and looks back down at her notebook. Flips a page pointedly.
Sherlock allows himself a nanosecond for surprise before continuing (stay cool, keep it light.)
He smiles and chuckles disarmingly (he hopes.)
"Well, I'm not sure what your usual idea of a date is, but I'd hope it's more than a couple of sad pastries in a third rate bakery. I just wanted to sit by the fire and hoped an offering of hot tea and sustenance would ease the intrusion."
Her eyes move to the pastries and she licked her lips slightly before pursing them. She is ravenous but she's saving her money for a proper dinner.
"Fine. But don't talk," she says, moving a stack of textbooks to the floor. She changes the CD in her Discman to the Stone Roses and turns up the volume. Goes back to her flash cards. Turns away from him.
He studies her profile as he devours his sticky bun. She picks at hers, though he knows she wants to down it in two bites. When he's finished, he decides to risk her wrath and talk to her. His bones are starting to ache and he needs distraction and he needs to know if he's right about her.
"Criminal Justice then, not Law?"
She whips her headphones off and faces him.
"Excuse me?"
"Well, it must be criminal justice, because I don't see many parents deciding to disown a daughter who wants to be a barrister. Police work a little plebeian then, after all the hard work they did to bring you up in style?"
"I don't know who you've been talking to, you creepy bastard, but stalking is illegal and I'll crush your nuts before I call the police if you don't piss off."
"I haven't talked to anyone. In fact, other than the girl at the till you're the first person I've uttered words to today, possibly in several days. I merely used the same skills of observation, though mine are much more keenly honed, to make my conclusions about you as you did to determine my more nefarious extracurricular habits. Anyhow, someone still loves you enough to give you nice gifts relating to your other passion, being music, even if they can't afford to feed you properly, otherwise you'd be lugging around your Walkman from college and a bag full of cassette tapes from the early 90s. From your aunt? The one who gave you the vintage Westwood jacket? That jacket couldn't possibly belong to your mum. If she's uptight enough to cut you off based on your career choice she'd never be caught dead in anything plaid and fur trimmed."
She folds her arms and glares. He thinks her eyes may actually have become darker.
"Am I wrong?"
"My gran," she says. "She's a bit of a free spirit, as my dad says. Some American boy toy made off with all her money. Dad's cut her off, too. She helps me when she can."
"Damn. Always something," he mutters.
"What was that, Freak?"
"Nothing. And the name is Sherlock Holmes. And you are?"
"Sarah."
"Sarah, ah. Hebrew for princess. But you don't go by that, do you?"
"Sally. Donovan."
"So why criminal justice and not law?"
"White wigs don't suit me."
You'd surely have an easier go of it all around if you were a barrister."
"Who said I liked things easy? And what do you mean, easier? Easier to go into law because of my double handicap?"
"You mean being black, and a woman? Yes. I certainly don't see it as a handicap but the fact remains that it's very difficult for any female police officer and doubly so for a black woman. "
"Well, I happen to believe that being a woman is an asset. We bring a different perspective to police work and to investigations.
"Ah, a French feminist. Fascinating."
"You're really either going to have to shut up or sod off," she says, picking up her flash cards again. She doesn't put her headphones back on. Yet.
"You know, those are a spectacular waste of time."
"This is how I always revise and I've always gotten top marks," she says, not looking up from her work.
"I didn't say it doesn't work, I just said it's a waste of time. How often do you have to use the same cards during a term to go over the same information when you could just store it away in your Mind Palace and only review it once."
"My Mind Palace."
"Well, I suppose the actual term is memory palace or memory place, but it's just semantics. It's also called Method of Loci and has been used since the ancient Greeks and Romans were piddling around creating great civilizations. Basically, it's easier to remember something if it's associated with a location than it is to just extract it from your brain. I use a palace; some people use a row of shops or apartments. Some just use one room. I store things in different rooms, though some of it I just put in the bins because I don't need it and don't see myself needing it in the future. "
"And this works."
"Ask me something, some kind of primary school fact or skill that you haven't used since."
"Erm," she says, looking around a bit. She points to a random passage in an open case study. "Diagram this sentence."
"Oh, this will be good. Okay." He takes a moment, staring at a point over her shoulder. His eyes move rapidly for about five seconds.
"Got it!" he says suddenly, picking up a pencil. "It was in the nursery in an old toy chest with some cricket statistics and Latin poetry. I haven't sorted through things in a while. I think it's time for a house cleaning."
After he diagrams the sentence, he slides it over to her. Then he jots down on another piece of paper:
Sentence Structure
Ovid
Solar System
Cricket nonsense
Playmates of the year 1988-1994
"That'll be a good start."
"You're insane."
"Undoubtedly, but it works. Want me to tell you how to do it?"
They don't exchange phone numbers or email addresses. He takes his leave of her as soon as he cannot focus anymore. He has filled the ashtray and she has drained several more mugs of tea.
He says goodbye in the middle of one of her sentences.
She is saying that she frequents that bakery because it is warm and stays open late, and the pubs can be too noisy for study.
He will not seek her out.
She is clever, with a prickly exterior. He likes that, but he has no interest in finding how deep the prickliness goes. She is not as clever as he, but no one ever is. He thinks that if he ever met anyone living who is as brilliant as he, that he won't know whether to snog them or kill them. He may just sit and stare for a few days.
He does steal one of her Oasis CDs. He tells himself he doesn't know why.
He makes his way back to his flat, on foot, heart beating in anticipation. He wills his body to relax, to wait just a moment more. Lets himself in. The place isn't extraordinarily filthy. The cleaning lady has been in, so most of the grime has been removed where it is visible between piles of books and clothes. (Didn't do the dishes, second week in a row. Time to put another advert up.) He changes into pyjamas. Turns on the kettle.
He usually keeps his stash on him for safe keeping, but his rig is in his bedroom, in a shoebox marked "Mementos" in the back of his closet. In the box, among a collection of rocks and shells and childhood ephemera, is small woven basket with a lid that a childhood pen pal had sent from a trip to a Choctaw Reservation in Oklahoma. In it are a few needles, alcohol swabs, cotton balls, a lighter, one of his school ties, and a silver spoon from his family's country estate. He's not sure if it's been missed, hopes none of the staff have been blamed if it has. He lays all of these articles out in precise order on a clean towel on his duvet. The kettle clicks.
After, he is lying on his bed in his dressing gown. He has been listening to music for hours. Right now, Handel's Water Music. Instead of majestic rivers, this piece has always made him picture a rabbit bounding about a meadow, happily avoiding by chance, not skill, every mishap that comes his way.
Her CD is on the night stand. He will consider putting it on later, when he can focus on words.
As the final movement draws to a close, he is about to press repeat on the remote when the doorbell rings. Christ, he hopes that his flat mate is home or that whoever it is gives up and goes away. But no, it persists. For several minutes. One long buzz after another. And then, like that, he is mostly sober. He stumbles to the door and jerks it open. There is Sally Donovan. She is shorter than he surmised, but he doesn't think he is misreading that she would very much like to punch him in the face.
"Give it back."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You nicked my Oasis CD."
"Oh, that, yes. An experiment. I wanted to see how long it took you to come round for it and if your budding detective skills were up to tracking me down."
She pushes past him, into the lounge.
"Didn't take much to find you. You've got a bit of a reputation for skulking about like some kind of heroin chic slacker ghostie. I told my friends I'd met an interesting boy today. Total junkie, almost fell asleep twice while we were talking, but beautiful grey eyes and dark curly hair. Hollowed out cheekbones like something out of Bronte novel. A complete psycho, because he got me talking about my gran and then stole a CD off of me. Couldn't have been about money since he obviously isn't wanting for it. One of them knew who you were right away. Said you'd been trying to cozy up to her boyfriend in order to get access to the morgue. I probably shouldn't encourage you, but you'd probably have more luck with the female med students."
He shows her into his room and gestures to the CD. His room is clean and free of any of the usual detritus of addiction. She is surprised.
"How did you know I had money?" he asks.
She rolls her eyes. "I went to public school, too, you know. For starters, there's that posh accent and the way, even when you're standing up you look as though you're leaning on your gun while standing over the carcass of some poor animal you've just shot for fun. And you're a more than casual drug user who doesn't have a job and isn't in school yet you aren't living on the streets letting old men suck you off for fivers."
"I have it on good authority that the going rate is twenty quid. Tea? We can use the best China."
"You know, I could have just called the police. I figured they'd be much more interested in the other things they'd find while searching for my CD. "
"But you didn't, and you really wouldn't have, because you know they're far too busy to be bothered with a stolen CD or a small time user. We don't deal, so we're under the radar as long as we don't OD in public."
She grabs the disc, goes to the kitchen and looks at him expectantly. So definitely a yes to the tea. He hasn't had a sober girl stay in his company for this long in ages.
"Ah," he says.
"Ah, what?"
"Now I know why. A copper's beat over the court room. You like danger."
"Do I?"
"Of course. You came alone to the flat of a male drug user with whom you're not well acquainted , in a not quite gentrified part of town, in order to retrieve an item that, while having some sentimental value, is easily replaced even in your dire financial straits. You had no idea if I lived alone or would be alone, and how I would react to your presence. "
"I told my girlfriends where I was going."
"No you didn't, because they would have insisted on coming or sending one of their boyfriends. "
"Oh aren't you the cat that ate the canary? Well it's not like I want to shag you. Probably can't get it up, anyway."
"Actually, priapism tends to be a symptom of withdrawal, though you are in fact, right, that it is often hard to maintain an erection while actively using. "
"You're fucking bonkers. Forget about tea, Freak, I'm leaving."
"But it's just boiled."
"Goodbye!"
And she is gone.
But the CD is still on the counter. He knows she will remember it before she gets down the stairs, but has too much pride to come back for it. At least not today. He puts it in the disc changer, lies down, and turns it on.
Lights a cigarette and smiles.
"Definitely…maybe."