Part One
When I was a boy, I was afraid of the dark . . . What was there.
And maybe one of the things I thought was there was vampires.
I donāt know. I canāt remember now.
But like all of us, whatever idea I did have about them, it was probably all the superstitious bullshit we get in books. And fiction. But that was nothing like the real thing. Like anything, the real thing is a lot more ordinary.
Itās a āmatter of factā. Matter of fact.
And thatās far more frightening than anything you can make up.
Because itās real.
Itās just there. Casual as everything else. Just waiting to be dealt with.
And there are practical things to be learned. Yes indeed.
Back in those days I was a fat bastard.
And I had a big red mush from drinking.
This is back before 1 met the vampires.
Before I knew what power was and what evil was.
But back then I thought I knew everything.
And I had lots of what I thought power was.
Because I was a theatre critic.
I was a journalist. I was a lucky bastard. I was blessed, or cursed, whichever, with the ability to string words together. I could string words together.
And thatās all it was.
I mean, I was intelligent, but I had no real thoughts about things.
Iād never taken the care to form an opinion. I just had them.
And only one care in the world, when I think back on it now, me.
I wanted . . . everything.
Love, I suppose. Respect. Esteem.
But I didnāt deserve it. No, I donāt think I deserved any respect. But I got it.
Oh yeah. I got it. Because people were afraid of me. I loved it. Going to big productions. Big names.
Careers spanning tens of glittering years.
And everyone afraid of what Iād write?
Of what I ālikedā?
And I hardly really liked anything.
And even when I did like something, mostly what I felt was . . . jealous.
I had tried writing.
Tried to convey the feelings I had.
That I genuinely fucking had ā for people.
I loved people. I loved the stupid bastards.
But. I had no ideas.
No ideas for a story.
I wanted to let my compassion seep out across the stage.
Handicapped people in love.
Queers and lesbians absolving each other.
A liberal, fucking, all-encompassing . . . you know.
But nothing came.
Nothing ever came.
I could only write about what there was already. I was a hack. And I was drunk. I was at gallery openings, milling free glasses of wine. I was in the bar after the premiere of plays.
I was the educated friend of the masses who read me. Protecting them from these artistic charlatans who were trying to rob their money.
And I could feel this . . . light. Going out. I could feel it.
It was panic I suppose.
Getting older, nothing done yet.
I started rows with directors in pubs.
I walked out of plays ten minutes before the end. I was on the telly.
I had all this drive, going nowhere. It was putting me in the ground.
And Iād get a fright you see. And Iād drink. And when I drank I always got vicious hangovers. And Iād be useless. Couldnāt do a thing. Just do it again.
And you see, my life was quite conducive to that. There wasnāt a problem.
I only needed to get about one solid hour done in a day. And then I was free.
I rehashed columns.
I usually had reviews written before the show was finished.
I could leaf through a current affairs magazine, see something, half an hour, Iād have a thousand words.
Tide me over.
And I was probably in the top-five highest-paid in the paper. You know? Editors licked the hole off me.
I was a character.
Famous in all the wrong ways. Nobody went without.
Not my fat tracksuit wife.
She didnāt want anything.
She was happy enough to get a half-bottle of gin into her.
And the days just slipped through her thick fingers.
Big house in the right place.
The cars and the cash. We were a pair of fat fuckers rolling around in the mud.
And our kids.
My girl was at college.
I loved her. I loved her in that way I couldnāt look her in the eye, you know? I couldnāt find the words.
It was too late. I just left money on the kitchen table every week.
Apparently she was a brilliant student and I suspected she was a writer but I donāt think I could have faced it if she was. You know? I avoided her.
I sat in my study with Milton and Chaucer, nice and cosy. And Iād finish a bottle and hit the sack at two or three.
And then Iād hear my boy come in.
He did nothing and I supported it.
All I knew was he stank of deodorant and he had some fruitless ambition to be a musician. Plinking away at that hour of the night.
He didnāt want anything to do with me. And even now my face is burning when I think about my children.
And my stomach is like a brick wall.
Well Iād be too drunk to hear my wife snoring for long and Iād lie in the dark with morning coming.
She knew better than to try and touch me. And I would remember that I loved her once, when we were young. We used to sit in her house and everything outside was made for us. All we had to do was keep holding hands. And I couldnāt even do that.
No, what I could do was sit in those yellow bars. With the journalists. Men falling in their pints. There was a breed of us, you see, and we werenāt mere reporters.
We had columns.
Thereād be a gang.
Men and women.
The women just on the verge of going to seed. Just on the brink, you understand.
And I was a big shot in those places. I couldāve had my pick.
I knew I could.
Those women with buckles on their shoes and their bows all done wrong.
They had each other, those journalists. There were one or two you...
