indiego.co.uk

28/08/2008

First Chapter

now available

jake’s eulogy

price: £6.99 adult fiction book: paperback size: 128 x 197mms

number of pages: 206 isbn number: 0-9549066-0-8

CHAPTER ONE

"For old man's eye, my dears,
For old man's eye,
We'll drink a cup of kindness here,
For the sake of old man's eye..."

Thirty years of singing Auld Lang Syne and Jake McCullough still didn't know the words, but it was his party piece, whatever the month or season - it was mid-October. He had been singing it his way for so long that it was too late to change now. It was at least phonetically correct. Tonight he was slurring the words so badly, however, that he could have been singing the words of The Fields of Athenry to the tune of Anarchy in the UK. Never mind, he was in good company, for he was not the only late-night crooner clinging to the bar as if it were a theme park ride.

"We'll drink a cup of kindness here,
For the sake of old man's eye..."

The rest of the group, a dozen drunkards, doubled up with laughter at the end of the chorus. Singing through persistent fits of the giggles was becoming a challenge. If it weren't for the enthusiasm of the four burly Texans, they would have collapsed in a heap long ago. Another song over and Jake McCullough slumped forward until his head rested on the bar. He knew the inability to hold it upright signalled the necessity to retreat to his bed. Sliding off the bar stool and staggering out of the room, he resisted the opportunity to join in Swing Low Sweet Chariot, which was being sung in honour of the Texans, members of the Houston Seventh Day Tabernacle Gospel Choir, for the fourth or fifth time. As he left, Jake McCullough forgot to pick up the Sputnik-like trophy he had received a couple of hours earlier. It now sat jettisoned on the counter beside a half-drunk pint.

Millions had been lavished on the Royal Pavilion Hotel, Brighton, to transform it into a venue fit for conferences and social events. On the Friday night Jake McCullough was in residence, the revolving doors had whisked in an exotic mix of penguin-suited men and scantily clad women attending one of many awards shows to be held in the Regency ballroom now that year end was nigh. Tonight's event: a literary awards dinner. If the Northern and West Building Society Literary Awards were not supported by the highbrow, few of the mainstream writers cared. The evening was a fun night out, a release for members of a profession who were, by and large, self-employed and spent most of their time working in isolation. The event presented an opportunity to enjoy the company of peers and sniff around the scattering of agents and publishers when they could be caught with a drink in hand. The post-dinner celebrations were raucous and, for the hard core of early hour revellers, unruly. Neither social status nor education, intelligence, income nor wit could offer much resistance to the temptations of a free bar.

By two o'clock in the morning Jake McCullough had drunk enough booze to keep a small chain of off-licences in stock for a month. His achievement in winning the award for 'Best New Writer in Children's Publishing' had come as a genuine surprise to him. Initially he was ecstatic, having barely been aware of his nomination.

Since he had recently turned thirty-five he thought it ironic that he could still be considered a new writer. Even though he knew that any success should be tasted and found sweet, he couldn't help feeling disappointed that his serious work - the three-hundred-page novels, of which only two out of the five had been published - was yet to be recognised. Never a good review. Never a nomination. Never an award. It was his children's book character, Johnny-One-Foot, the Footballing Penguin that had been his success. Johnny-One-Foot, first penned in biro on a napkin for his children's entertainment, had become a national icon earning him a comfortable living from TV rights and merchandising. Johnny's popularity had only exacerbated his lack of fulfilment.

In the short term, however, he enjoyed the company of his new friends and drank long and hard to their, his, and anybody-else-who-came-into-their-orbit's good health. And now he had taken his fill of sycophancy, and with Swing Low Sweet Chariot still echoing from the bar, managed to fumble his way to his landing on the first floor, find his door, find his key, stab it into the lock and pour himself through the doorway into the claustrophobic environment of his hotel room - soundproof and suffocating.

The bed beckoned. Lured by the promise of greater comfort, Jake staggered over and let himself flop backwards like a rag doll onto the ocean of bedspread and pillows. The door swung closed behind him with a snug thud, shutting out the drunken bellowing of the American gospel choir and plunging the room into silence, sealing the world out from his solitary confinement. Sensory deprivation in semi-comfort. After a few moments he let out a sigh that like a punctured tyre expelled stale air in a long and steady breath.

He opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling and waited for it to start spinning, not wanting to close them again if it did. He didn't want to fall asleep, not yet anyway. He wanted to think a little first. He wanted to understand why, now that the initial euphoria of his triumph had worn off, there was no sense of achievement, no self-satisfaction. Why did he feel such a sense of failure? Why did everything bore him so? He sat up and nestled his head in his hands, rubbing his face to try and dislodge the alcoholic fug enveloping it, and looked around the room for a distraction. There was little to interest him until his eyes focused on the minibar. Drink? Yes, he needed more. He would escape into a hangover and sit the game out for a while.

The contents of the minibar didn't amount to much - a half bottle of Veuve Clicquot, three bottles of Pilsner lager, three bottles of Bud, Diet Coke, orange juice, some Belgian chocolates, three bags of crisps, a half bottle of gin, a half bottle of vodka, two half bottles of white wine, a half bottle of red, and some miniature bottles of brandy, whisky and cognac.

Drunk, he tottered to and fro as best he could to unburden the minibar of its booty, placing the bottles neatly on the dressing table by the window, meticulously arranging them in a uniform row. It took a huge physical effort to be delicate, and mammoth powers of concentration not to knock the bottles over like skittles. His hands were more reliable than his legs. His hands trembled, but could be controlled. His legs were steady enough until he tried to walk, when movement in a straight line seemed beyond them. The image of a newborn foal came to mind.

The booze on the dressing table multiplied quickly; the overall bottlescape enhanced by the broad mirror at the back which doubled its mass. As he loaded the bottles onto the table Jake was startled by what at first he took for an apparition of his father - a greyer face with greying blue eyes. For a moment or two he searched the reflection for the face of his youth, surveying the new contours, checking the development of the double chin, inspecting his nose and ears for shoots of old man's hair, and stroking his floppy quiff back into place.

His hair. At least he had his hair. And his teeth were fine. He gave himself a toothy grin and inspected his realigned smile. But God, they were white. Somehow, and considering the abuse he had inflicted upon himself over the years, he didn't look too bad. In fact he looked pretty good. People always said he looked five years younger. He wasn't unattractive. He could tell by the way women still glanced at him on the street from time to time and the attention he attracted at parties, but he knew he couldn't keep it up for much longer. Sooner rather than later his looks would go down the drain, wasted like the slops of a drunken binge, once fine wine.

Driven by a renewed thirst, he fetched a clean glass from the complimentary tea and coffee tray and took it into the bathroom for rinsing. He wandered back into the bedroom to switch on the radio, buffing the glass on a fresh facecloth.

A smile illuminated his dour expression as the familiar sound of Radio Four's Just a Minute filled the room. A late-night repeat from far away on long wave, where Nicholas Parsons presided over a group of celebrities attempting to talk on a given subject for sixty seconds without pause. The current subject was 'Why I like cheese-and-wine parties'.

The chatter on the radio, he thanked God, drowned out the faint drunken hubbub from the ballroom, the rain lashing the window and, from a distant floor, the steady rhythm of a bed thumping against a wall. Now Jake was ready to commence his party for one. Reclining in the armchair between the bed and the stash of bottles, he steadied himself for the 'off', cursing that he had no lemon or ice for the spirits. The idea hatched in his mind that he would try to drink the minibar dry. Yes. He'd drink the bloody lot. He would start at the top and work down. That is to say, he would drink the Veuve Clicquot, then the wine, then the beer. He would drink the spirits last - drinking vodka, then gin, then whisky, then brandy, then cognac, in that order.

His expectation was that he wouldn't get round to drinking the spirits, hoping that the champagne, wine and beer, on top of the huge quantity of free booze, especially the cocktails he had had earlier, would be enough to render him unconscious first.

The Veuve Clicquot popped, he grabbed a bag of crisps and settled down to begin his feast. At first the champagne tasted refreshing, but two glasses down - large glasses - it became less palatable. The effervescence on top of his earlier consumption was beginning to make him feel bloated. He also felt weary. His eyes were sore, the lids heavy, and he could sense that they were blinking more regularly and that the strokes were getting slower and longer. Though he tried to fight it, his head rolled forward and he was sleeping before a third glass could be poured.

The next day came too soon. Mid-morning he was woken by the ringing of the telephone, then found the damp patch in his trousers where he had spilled his last drink. People were looking for him - his agent, his wife, his children. His head was splitting. As ever, his hangover came accompanied by a scintilla of guilt. Jake peeled off his dinner suit, a worn and battered skin not quite ready to go, and crawled back into bed for two or three hours, letting the day into his life in small degrees, just as much as his hangover would allow. He would wake up, then sit up, and if his head was sore lie down again and go back to sleep for another half an hour to rest his pickled brain cells.

After four or five attempts he felt well enough to prise himself out of bed and order a breakfast. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, but might have been dawn or dusk as far as he was aware. Jake gathered his wits in between nibbles on dried toast. What to do next? Should he get his act together and go home to the security of his wife and children and resume the struggle of his writing career, or should he go haywire and disappear on a two- or three-day bender? Anything would be better than having to face the tedious life he had grown to despise back in North London, the humdrum everyday greyness that he had allowed to become his routine. The tide of his ambition had swept him so far out to sea, that there was no turning back now, no lifebelt. He felt he must drown.

In a flash a deliciously dark and sinister idea sparked his imagination, as he thought of a much easier way out of the predicament. It involved an exciting new challenge. A kind of nightmarish game. The idea brought him some comfort. If he were to attempt it, and succeed, the act would relieve him of his ongoing headache and solve his problems at a stroke. And if it didn't work, if he failed, the attempt would at least make others sit up and appreciate him more than they had of late.

The idea was simple. He would drink himself to death. Why not? He had tried most things, so why not suicide? He had been drinking himself to death for the past twenty years or so anyway. Now he would speed up the process. He loved drink and drinking, and in the same way that some people fancy laughing to death, or dying mid-orgasm, believed that this would be his preferred option given a choice, a painless one at that - less painful than the sclerosis he was sipping his way towards. It would be quick and enjoyable. And he was a writer after all; suicide might even be the making of him. Yes, it would be a career move. Others had tried it with some success.

Jake addressed the logistics whilst finishing his breakfast. If he were going to get drunk - drunk enough to kill himself - it would take more than the remaining contents of the minibar to do it. The booze would have to be delivered by van from a wine merchant. This was practical; he would require volume, after all. It would have to be vodka, because it was clean and he would be able to drink it in large quantities mixed with a little orange juice. Just enough to give it a pleasant taste. A few bottles of gin and vermouth would be required to mix up the occasional dry martini to break the monotony of the diet of vodka and orange. He might even get a few six packs of Budweiser to quench his thirst first thing in the morning - if he had mornings.

Whether he could drink himself to death in just three days he didn't know, but was sure that if he drank fast enough, it was possible that he could poison himself on the first night alone. He guessed that he probably hadn't been far off achieving that on the previous night. Firstly however, he would have to notify the hotel that he would be staying on for an extra couple of days and having some books delivered - three or four boxes. Yes, that would satisfy their curiosity.

The alternative to 'Plan A' was less attractive. It required mental stamina and concentration, and meant embracing normality. He didn't think that he had too much stock of either stamina or concentration left in him. To go home now, feeling as demoralised as he did, and continue barking up the wrong tree wasn't what he wanted any more. He had exhausted too many last chances.

He considered his kids and what was best for them, but couldn't continue the train of thought. It was just too painful to contemplate how he would be letting them down and too great an obstacle to achieving the present objective. When he thought about his wife he felt sick. What this would do to her confirmed his lowest opinion of himself, but he suspected that she would cope, could rebuild her life. No, he couldn't go on hurting people. Far better to go out with a bang. He got up, got out the Yellow Pages and looked up Wine and Spirit Merchants...Wholesale.

When Jake's contraband arrived in the foyer he had trouble getting it delivered to his room. The duty manager grew suspicious of the contents - books that clinked. A severe test of Jake's diplomatic skills. For once Jake was unable to offer a hand to the delivery man. He often liked to help out. It was his way of proving to himself that he wasn't a bourgeois bastard just because he had a bit of brass. He didn't like to appear flash, preferring to be 'mates' with everybody. This included delivery people, who were often too busy to pass the time of day with those to whom they were delivering. Jake wasn't convinced that this bonhomie was genuine. He knew that it was inspired by vanity. However, he believed that if he could make a stranger smile and coax a little affection from them, then he could reassure himself that for all his other failings, he at least had the common touch. Consequently, few were spared Jake's charm offensive. The delivery man made two runs to and from his van and was done. Twelve litre bottles of vodka, six bottles of gin, six bottles of vermouth, twelve litres of freshly squeezed orange juice, two bottles of orange squash (just in case he got through the fresh stuff prematurely), forty-eight bottles of Budweiser and thirty-six party-size bags of salt 'n' vinegar crisps.

Jake surveyed his booty, which sat proud on the hotel room floor. Contemplating the booze, a ridiculous amount for one, made him feel nauseous. It also made him laugh. Being a meticulous type, he had already run a bath in order to keep his hoard as cool as possible. He proceeded to stash a selection of everything in the cold water, a good proportion of which was the beer and orange juice. It would have suited him to store the vodka in a freezer. If he were going to drink vodka, then he would prefer iced vodka from frosted glasses, but never mind. The rest of the booze he arranged neatly in the floorspace of the built-in wardrobe until it was full. The few bottles that were left - mostly beer - he stood in one of the units under the television.

Jake inspected his work with satisfaction, made sure the Do Not Disturb notice was in place, found a clean glass, polished it with one of the bathroom towels, breathed on it, buffed it and was ready. A dry martini was mixed using the bathroom as kitchen and bar. He was annoyed that he had forgotten to ask for olives. He withdrew into the bedroom with his drink.

"And your past life a ruined church, let your poison be your cure..."
A toast seemed appropriate.
Sloshing his drink, he turned on the Channel Four racing and sank into the large armchair to watch the 4.15 from Aintree.
By the time it was dark outside, Jake was still waiting to feel drunk, but he persevered. Eventually, he dropped off into a deep sleep. A dry martini and one and a half bottles of vodka down and day one was through.

Jake didn't wake up until lunchtime the next day. This was unfortunate, he thought. If he were going to drink himself to death, he would need to get a move on, or he was going to run out of time. His room was only booked for another day and taking his bank balance into consideration he didn't think he could avoid packing up and going home thereafter.

He would need to stay awake for longer and increase his intake during those hours remaining to him. Not that he wasn't feeling the effect of the previous nights' drinking. He did have the mother of all hangovers and if he weren't so determined to achieve his objective, he would have taken a long sleep to recover. Revived by a brunch of beer and crisps, he tore into another bottle of vodka. The vodka was starting to work on him, and although he felt compos mentis, noticed that he was shakier on his feet and giddy. Whenever he tired of the vodka and orange, he would make himself a dry martini, and each time he mixed one up it was less daintily concocted than the one before. Whereas he had been measuring the ingredients carefully into the stainless steel teapot, which he had commandeered into service as a cocktail shaker, and drinking the cocktail from a freshly washed-up glass, he was now pitching the ingredients into the furry pint mug he had found under the bed, and glugging the rough mixture like beer.

The cocktails were to be his undoing. On this, the second day of his project, he had given up on the television and had taken to listening to the radio again - Radio Two and Four.

He would much rather have listened to Radio Four to the exclusion of all other stations, but felt that Radio Four's coverage of current affairs would make his mood even more morose than it had been before tuning in. Even drunk into a semi-coma, Jake could sense a pervading atmosphere of gloom on Radio Four, characterised by poorly acted radio plays, angry listeners' letters, cynical interviews and what he considered to be a preference for bad news over good. Since he didn't believe Radio Four to be conducive to good humour, he rationed himself to the odd session of no more than half an hour, punctuated by interludes of the lighter entertainment offered on Radio Two.

By early afternoon he was feeling sleepy again, and couldn't resist the urge to lie down for a brief snooze. Memories of his childhood flooded back - of family holidays in Donegal, the beauty of Kinnagoe Bay and the deserted beach at the far end beyond the rocks with its stream and waterfall. God, how he would love to go back. He pictured his father yelling like a maniac and charging towards the icy sea - the scene unrolling in a gawdy Technicolor of turquoise blues and pillar-box reds - his father turning to smile, a warm and loving smile, reassuring and godly. Then he disappeared, diving into the tall surf.

And as the lullaby strains of the Desert Island Discs theme tune drifted across the bedroom ether, he couldn't stop himself from slipping into a deep, deep sleep from which he couldn't awake.