I was used to be being comfortable with my own company. I was used to being self-sufficient. Really, I was used to being in control. I suppose that comes from not having much family. I didn’t come from a tough, working class background, but would it have been worse if I had? There was still plenty of things working against me and I had to grow up first ad look out for myself. I like seeing the family I do still have, well some of them, and I like seeing my friends. Maybe it’s just in small enough doses though, I just value time to myself.
Jesus – maybe that’s why I can’t hold down a long term boyfriend.
Even with gigs, I prefer doing solo ones. I did some gigging with a drummer for a while. That was before I did mostly private parties. Belfast pubs tend to favour two piece outfits with a drummer. It’s the cheapest way to get a big sound. We had a few regular jobs for about six months. The thing about those gigs are that they’re city centre weekend gigs and everyone wants to party and get totally blitzed. That was one reason I switched to the more sedate house-party wedding and birthday gigs. One of the last nights we played together, we were out playing in this rowdy little bar in The Cathedral Quarter. It had already been a bit shit because the sound hadn’t been great and a few fellas had been sleazing on to me. My drummer Ted was also rightly pissed off. We had gone up to the bar after sound check and these two middle aged women, three sheets to the wind, started messing around on his kit. They knocked his snare over and broke one of his sticks. Ted was a blonde, lean and generally mild mannered guy. He went over to them and politely asked them to jog on, which they did. On our break we went out for a smoke and then some randomer sidled up to us. He was about our age, well built, but with a weird manner about him.
“What’s your story – you a surfer?” he said to Ted abruptly.
“No mate, I’m a drummer.”
“Oh right. Youse were playing that shite earlier then?” he said smirking and lighting a cigarette.
Ted looked fed up.
“Fuck off will you?” he said.
“What the fuck?” snarled the guy, beginning to square up.
“Alright alright,” I said, getting in-between them. I calmed it down and got the man to get lost. We had another smoke, Ted settled down then we went back in to play our second set. I found my keyboard had been bucked over onto the floor.
***
My head felt like there was such pressure inside it, it would explode. I stubbed out the cigarette end, wiped my eyes and set about rolling another one.
Pull yourself together.
I knew I just had to. What other option was there? I wasn’t going to hand myself in. But should I?
I hadn’t been the one to kill him.
I definitely wasn’t wanting to hand myself in – I knew that. So why worry? Easier said than done.
There was a small part of my rational brain still ticking over somewhere in the back behind all the brain cells going panic, panic, panic! It was telling me those things, like it wasn’t my fault and that worrying would change nothing. It has always been a central belief of mine that consequences are all that really matters. There is no right or wrong – they are just human inventions. I suppose it was the Philosophy at Uni that got me thinking about this kind of stuff. I remember trying to explain it to Mike one time. He never went to university, but in addition to the street smarts, he is also a really intelligent guy. He just buries it down a bit sometimes.
“You can’t say that – of course there’s right and wrong Vick,” he’d said.
In many ways Mike is black and white like that. I didn’t know what he’d make of what I was doing now. Where would he draw the line?
“I can say that,” I continued, hitting him a playful dig on the arm. I think we were at his old flat, sharing a joint at the time no doubt.
“I’m in good company. It’s what Jeremy Bentham and J.S Mill believed too. It’s all about the consequences. That’s what matters – that and happiness. Whatever leads to the greatest happiness of the greatest number – that’s the closest we can get to doing right.”
I gestured heavily, an open and part-drunken smile on my face. Mike shook his head, taking a swig from his bottle of beer.
“Pass me that joint, you header,” he’d said. “I think there is right and wrong plain and simple. We often have no fuckin’ idea how something will end, so that’s not morality. It can’t be. I’m sure there is right and wrong and most of us know the difference. And yeah, sometimes I guess we just choose to do the wrong.”
“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion and you’re also entitled to be wrong,” I quipped, handing him back the number.
He accepted it, ignoring the comment.
“Wasn’t Jeremy Bentham the bloody lunatic who donated his head to some museum to display?” Mike asked.
He had me there.
25
I paced a few laps of my room, used the toilet and tidied up my face. Once again, I pulled myself together. After a short while, I ventured out into the little town area. For a start, I needed some alcohol. For another, I was nearly out of skins. My new hotel wasn’t gonna have any mini bar or a concierge to meet my self-destructive whims. Starting off down the street, it felt good to be outside. It also felt nice to be somewhere off the beaten track, anonymous. I hadn’t needed much cash in the
