Pseudology

PART THREE: ad quod damnum (Seventeen)

“I can’t wait.” Martin’s smile, small and bright, made Adrian feel a little warm inside. They chuckled together and Adrian leaned back in his seat, getting comfortable for the long journey ahead.

“What are we going to do whilst in London?” Adrian asked. “I can’t remember what we’re supposed to be doing.”

Martin’s eyes flickered with a concern the colour of brown- unsure and unattractive; concerned was how he was supposed to act, Adrian reminded himself, as he saw the emotion in his friend’s eyes, though he struggled to identify if ‘concern’ was the right emotion. He glanced away.

“Adrian…” Martin’s voice was soft. “How much have you taken recently?” Fear edged his voice slightly. Adrian knew that Martin was referring to the drugs, but what could he say?

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” he lied smoothly, his voice unfazed.

“Adrian, don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Please.” It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement instead. “Don’t, Adrian.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t bloody lie.” Martin was getting angrier as Adrian shook his head more and more. “You take too much of it.”

“Keep your voice down!” came a sharp, snappy voice from behind. Martin and Adrian turned round simultaneously to see Andrew, their friend, sitting in the seat behind them, his face stressed and his eyes wide. “Shut up, will you?”

“No one notices that we talk about it.” Adrian’s voice was monotonous and cold; Martin resisted the urge to sigh or bite his lip because Adrian was slowly going back to his un-caring self again… the cocaine must have been wearing off, so he supposed that he hadn’t taken some in quite a while. Even though Martin was dreading the ride down to London, at least he knew that Adrian wasn’t high. “See? Look around you, and look at all of these people. Look at the ones who are too self-absorbed to realise that no one really cares about what they’re talking about. Look at all of those who actually don’t care, and look at the ones who will never care because that’s how the world works. Everyone thinks that they’re so clever, so diligent and vigilant. They don’t realise how stupid they truly are; I feel sorry for them. No one notices anything. So you don’t have to panic, you see. No one would ever know what I take or how I take it, or when, because they don’t notice anything. No one watches. No one listens. No one will ever know anything. No one has even noticed that we’re talking to each other.”

Andrew looked at Martin, wondering what on earth to say again. He’d been getting worse lately, they were both sure of it. Adrian was coming down less and less for dinner, and though he attended all of his lessons, he was doing less and less work. His eyes were wider more often, and his control was slowly slipping: he’d speak a little more, reveal a little more of himself each time he sniffed the powder up his nose. And the more he did it, the more Martin was worrying.

Turning away from his friend, Martin crossed his arms and looked out of the window as the coach pulled away.

III

Morton was sitting with Marvin in his room, casually sipping a can of coke. He’d offered Marvin one, and the younger brother had guzzled it before Morton could even open his can. When told that Marvin that he was a heathen, a small pencil had collided with the side of Morton’s head. Morton had given up even before they’d had their conversation.

“So, what am I here for, Mort?” Marvin asked, his blonde hair hanging in his eyes as he sat down on Morton’s bed. The sheets were crisp and straight, evenly made with a precision which Marvin had always found strange in Morton.

Marvin, now twelve, had never been particularly close to Morton. There was eight years different between them and the personality differences caused many problems when they were together at home. Their father, an intense and boisterous man, much preferred Morton to any of his three sons, but it comforted Marvin to know that he was next in the line of love. Father despised Adrian, but because Marvin had never paid any attention to his older brother, he didn’t know why he was disliked so much. He-Marvin- had a feeling that it was because his brother was generally depressing and too awkward; their father didn’t love him as much and it was obvious. He was less lovable, maybe, and Marvin honestly believed that this was the case sometimes, when he thought back on his brother.

“We have a problem.” Morton’s voice was grave. No, dull, Marvin thought.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Adrian.”

Marvin cocked his eyebrows.

“You’re effing kidding me?”

“Marvin!” Morton’s voice was sharp and angry, tinted with a surprising authority which Marvin hadn’t expected. He pulled a face.

“Sorry, Mort.”

“Anyway,” he sighed. “the problem is Adrian. Well, there is no other way of saying this. You see… he’s run away.”

“From school?”

“From school whilst they were on a school trip.”

“A school trip?” Marvin felt a smell spread over his face at his brother’s antics. “Fuck me!”

“Marvin!”

“Sorry, Mort.”

“Anyway,” Morton grumbled. “I need your help.” There was a pause, and Morton produced his ugly, brick-like phone. “I need you to phone father.”

Marvin wasn’t impressed.