Wound Tighter Than A Watch Spring

Okay, sleeping with someone is never a good idea, you know? Curling up tight to someone and partaking of their certain talents without even bothering to care is sort of shite. Especially if they are named Jim Beam and make your head feel like there’s a tidal surge happening in your sinuses…Jesus Christ, fucking hangover. Why do my teeth hurt? What did I…there were Oscars? And a party? Yesh, a party. And singing? There might have been, just that bit of my head’s melted. No. Stolen. The Booze Thieves strike again, the terrible cunts. Bastards always get me. Think they are stalking me…no. Not being paranoid. Not going there. Aspirin, where are you? There’s none there! Not in the cabinet. Fuck! Fuck!

Ow!

Don’t say a bloody word Dominic Monaghan, not a bloody word. Keep schtum, nice and silent, you can stand up, not too difficult. There, that wasn’t too hard…what are you doing? You weren’t supposed to fall over! Um, be a man, think some sort of SAS paratrooper going into somewhere like Kosovo, think green beret and do they have green berets? On telly they’re all in black baklaclavas and face paint. Baklava. No, balaclava. That’ right, clever Dom. Good boy. Now ups a daisy, up we get.

Kitchen this way, kitchen will have drugs. Fuck anything else, drugs are right up my alley and there they are, you little teases. Hiding in here, were you, away from Daddy? Right, bad tablets, you’re so going to be swallowed for that. Down the ha…stop choking! Swallow…no? Stuck. Oh, and they taste of evil, evil nasty bad pills. Water! Drink! Anything!

Ah, better. Now all we’ve got to do is not vomit, and we’ll be sorted. Going to fall over. Not again. Ow. Okay, I’ll stay here. Hey, the telly remote is on the floor, ha! Being untidy’s fucking good for you, take that you neat freaks, you stupid bastards. Don’t suppose any of you’d get paralytic though. No, you’d be off eating yoga and doing tofu and meditating on their shakras and all that shit. You wouldn’t lay on your back in the middle of the kitchen and watch Jerry Springer upside down after winning Oscars, would you? Missing out, you lot are.

*****

Newspapers were fickle things, even at the best of times, but this had nothing to do with their content and everything to do with the size of their pages. Currently, Billy was trying to stop the Daily Telegraph eating his head. It wasn’t as if he actually liked the Telegraph, so right wing and Conservative in the outlook, but at least it was a British newspaper, which was comforting. A day or two old, it was a little out of date, but he was saving himself for the glory that was the crossword.

Out came the pen, scribbling and workings out on spare paper and eventually when the paper ran out, his arm, and Billy was contemplating the last clue; cryptic and confusing. ‘Most confused, the German exclaimed the organ.’ Most confused…the Scotsman certainly was. He didn’t even know why he did the flaming things, after all he wasn’t actually a fan, but they were sort of addictive. Other people smoked crack, or had a shoe fetish, or smeared themselves in honey and threw themselves to the wasps. Billy merely did the Telegraph crossword occasionally.

The Last Clue. Being evasive. There was nothing left to do.

He picked up the phone handset, holding it in his palm, before pausing. Was ringing the right idea? Dom had been a little worse for wear the last night, it was why they had left comparatively early. Sure, that was a slight understatement. He’d been wrecked, though as he was good at holding his drink he’d seemed less drunk than in actuality – Dom’s hyperactivity had kicked in fairly well, after all, and had hidden anything untoward.

He would be hungover.

Billy ran a finger over the keys of the phone, touching the numbers of the phone number that he’d memorised, but not pressing them, the tiny beeping pleased tone absent as the fingerpad drifted over the buttons.

Then he got it. Stomach.

At least it meant he didn’t have to phone Dom.

*****

You’d have thought he’d have rung, don’t Jus Just to see if I got home and wasn’t gang-raped by fans or something. But no, not a fucking thing. Scottish wanker. Yeah, you, Billy, you wanker. See, I’m pissed off and hungover so the idea of Billy wanking, it’s not affecting me. You could be sitting right here in front of he, just wanking away, begging for something, anything, and I wouldn’t raise a finger to help you you little bastard. Ach, fuck it, you would you weak bugger. He could just waltz in here, right now, and tell you to do sick things with Margaret Thatcher and you’d be asking if she needed a strap on and how far you were to bend over. Weak. Weak and feeble and ruled by your cock. No, not getting out of it by saying most men are. You’re a nutcase, you can’t go five minutes without imagining your best mate naked and gagging for a right good going over. Jesus, they’ve locked people up for less than that.

Why won’t he phone, though? He was being weird last night, avoidance, that’s strange. He wasn’t himself. Maybe he’s just upset about us all splitting up? But then he should have made the best of it, shouldn’t he?

Hey, the drugs are kicking in, my arm is moving without the tremors.

Okay, okay, I’m a weak cretin, but I’ve got to hear his voice. Just once, today. Just a little Billy fix, then I can go have a shower, sort myself out, do some packing, all cool, right?

So fucking weak.

*****

"Heya Billy, mate, alright?" Dom had dragged himself onto the settee, on his stomach, eating a packet of crisps. Not, as Americans called them, chips, use use his chips were…it was complicated. But there were crisps, a bag of ready salted Kettle Chips (though they were crisps his brain complained), and there was coffee.

"Aye, no bad. Yourself?" He sounded distant, a little preoccupied, but it was still Billy. Always a good thing

"Not bad, not bad."

"Drugs kicked in then?"

"You know me far too well." How the fuck did he know…ah, yeah, living in each others’ pockets for nigh on four years made sure your friends knew what you were like after certain amounts of beer and whisky.

"What you want, anyway?"

"Just wanted to hear that sweet mellifluous Scottish voice once more." Slightly hurt at the sharp tone that his friend was employing, Dom decided that being cute might help. After all, it was a quality he was good at. Being cute. Also, being weird was another of his more excellent character traits, but the cuteness was more at home in this particular conversation.

"So you weren’t really wanting anything then?"

"Not really, nah."

"Then I’ve got to go."

"Wha? Billy, mate, come on and have a chat! You’ve not got to rush off, have you?" Panicking and now starting to get worried, as the Scotsman never ever buggered off when there was the chance to procrastinate on the phone, Dom tried to keep him talking. Maybe it was drugs. Maybe it was a girlfriend? He shuddered inwardly at the awful thought; though even now he wasn’t sure which side of the fence Billy mowed the grass.

"There’s things I have to do, Dom." Painfully grown up sounding, almost condescending.

"Billy?"

"Yes?"

It was too much, the fear of something else preoccupying Billy sliding into anger. This wasn’t fair! They were supposed to be best friends, and best friends talked about things, they shared everything. Aware he was sounding like a six year old girl who’d been left by her friend for someone new, probably the little girl with the pony and the parents who drive a Mercades, the Mancunian found he didn’t actually care, such was the pique.

"You’re avoiding me, aren’t you? You were really weird yesterday and you’re never like this, you usually talk for hours, so tell me what the hell the matter is because it’s driving me bloody mad trying to think of a reason."

"You know what the reason is. Bye Dom. See you around." Click. The phone was put down, the voice on the other end that had sounded tired, suddenly; shut off with such suddenness that Dom knocked his coffee onto the floor with shock.

What the fuck was going on?