Fallen
Category: Nathan Barley
Characters: Dan Ashcroft, Jones
Pairing: Dan Ashcroft/Jones
Genre: Drama
Rating: NC-17
Status: Complete
Length: 10-20k words
Chapter Four
Contents
Chapter Four
Author’s Notes: Things fall apart.
(The final part)
A high-pitched giggle from the nurse’s station roused Dan from his sleep. He turned over, lying flat on his back and stared upwards at the white ceiling tiles. A faint repetitive sound from the nurses’ transistor radio reminded Dan of Jones’ police-siren-electro-lullaby, “Time to Go to Sleep”. He only wished he could; a deep, rejuvenating sleep that would cause the maelstrom in his head to subside.
The hospital ward was shrouded in a womb-like silence, punctuated only by the occasional cough, snore or fart from the other patients. Shafts of light from passing traffic headlights shone through from the far window, traversed the ceiling crossed one another and faded.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in hospital but he guessed it was almost five days since he was admitted. The visit from his sister and the office donkeys now seemed unreal, as if he were just grasping at pieces of reality that didn’t quite fit together. There were few familiarities around him. The throbbing pains in his leg and arm were less severe now, and the doctors had lowered the strength of his medication. His bed was functional but comfortable; just another bed in a history of bed-hopping and sofa-surfing.
Dan’s eyes followed another shaft of light as it crossed the ceiling and disappeared out of sight. His brain was in a fast spin-cycle of over-analysing recent events. Night after night, hour after hour, he had stared into dark space, mentally sifting through his recent past, wondering how he’d got to this point in his life, but the answer had always eluded him.
As he tried to piece the fragments together, an icy sensation slowly rose from the back of his neck and spread across the top of his skull. The creeping sensation in his head was accompanied by a sudden twisting in his gut; a lurching that sank deep inside and exposed a raw nerve of home truths. He groaned and curled into a ball, turned on to his side, lifted the pillows and buried his head beneath them.
With the sudden clarity of an alcoholic, Dan knew exactly how he’d got to this point in his life. As he gripped the pillow more tightly against his head, he broke out into a cold sweat and felt sick.
The painful truth was that he’d got here because he’d become one of them.
He’d become an Idiot.
“You can take a running jump if you think I’m cleaning up your mess again.”
Claire moved a pile of cups, magazines and newspapers from the sofa then slumped on to the seat, taking a cigarette from the packet lying on the make-shift coffee table.
“How many coffee cups have you actually got? There must be at least forty in the sink.”
She clicked the ignition on her lighter and lit up, blowing a line of smoke towards Dan, who was sitting opposite her in a tatty armchair, reading a newspaper.
“So, have you got my money yet?”
Dan didn’t reply, pretending not to hear Claire, so she repeated her question again, emphasising it with a thrown empty cigarette packet. Dan dodged the missile and fidgeted in the armchair, scratching at this beard stubble with two fingers of his left hand. He knew Claire wasn’t going to drop the subject until he’d given her an answer. He lowered the newspaper and gave her a shrug, turning down the sides of his mouth.
“I will.”
Claire huffed at him, exasperated. “When, Dan? What are you going to do? Sell your used coffee cups on eBay?”
He turned a page, visibly squirming: “I’ll get some more work.”
She sighed and muttered into her mug of black coffee: “Yeah, right.”
He tried to focus on the newspaper but Claire’s annoyance was palpable as she continued to smoke and sip at her coffee. There was no question that it was entirely his fault that she’d lost her valuable camera to the bailiff. One night seven years ago, he’d got so pissed-up with his mates that they’d decided, on highly intoxicated impulse, to join a video shop. He had no idea why he’d faked Claire’s signature but it had seemed like a good idea after ten pints of lager. He’d never even heard of ‘Pete’s Dragon’ until he woke up the next morning with a belting hangover and the video case stuck to his forehead with the remains of a kebab and curry sauce.
Dan was aware that he’d pushed his sister’s patience just about as far as he could. There was a limit, even if blood was thicker than water. At some point, he’d have to cough up the money. It’s just that after he had absolutely no buggering idea how he was going to do it. He’d happily give somebody his right arm if they could find the money and get his sister off his back.
Annoyance and resentment rose sharply within him. With a sneer, he snapped back at her:
“Maybe I’ll give you your money when you stop fucking an Idiot.”
Claire sprang up from her seat, told him to ‘fuck off’, and left the house for the rest of the day. He didn’t go after her. Instead he remained in the armchair, grinding his teeth, knowing he’d just sent her straight round to Nathan Barley’s place.
The Idiots were winning…
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the urinals of the Grey Lion pub. As he tugged rhythmically at the man’s erect cock, Dan stared straight ahead, studying the cracks in the wall tiles and trying to disconnect himself from the situation.
He’d asked Jonatton for more work and, even though he knew he’d agreed to yet another of Yeah?’s twisted ideas for a magazine feature, he wasn’t going to let him win on this one. This was purely a business transaction. Once this was done, he’d be able to pay off Claire in full.
As the man gave a low throaty growl and came over his latex glove, Dan thought about hundreds of pairs of plastic neon sunglasses falling against concrete.
03.13… 04.13… 05: 13…
The LED digits of the clock radio blinked across the dark lounge, scorching deep into Dan’s red-rimmed eye-sockets. He tried closing his eyes for the six hundredth time but it was no use; he could not sleep. Each blink felt like sandpaper dragging across his pupils.
Every night since Claire’s arrival, Dan had slept poorly on the lumpy sofa, his back throbbing and his over-wrought mind turning over recent events; each humiliating incident wrapping itself around his thoughts, strangling his logic, loosening his grip on reality and threatening to swallow him completely. Images flashed and fractured before him in a continuous, warped hallucination: the ‘Weekend on Sunday’ interview, the Preacher Man ridiculousness, 15Peter20 and his piss-photos, failing to protect Claire from Barley’s advances, the Grey Lion Pub incident. It felt as if he was helplessly spiralling downwards, tumbling down a staircase of shame and frustration, burning with anger as he struck each step.
It was a staircase built and commissioned by prize Idiots, like Nathan Fucking Barley. That name alone caused Dan to grind his teeth down to stumps. Since the day he had allowed Barley to scrawl the domain-name of his solipsistic website across his knuckles, the pied piper of designer-clad retards had generated a berk circus of over-hype that had somehow duped every sane-thinking individual in Hoxditch (of which, admittedly, there weren’t many) into believing his ‘peace and fucking’ bullshit. Dan had resisted at every turn and yet… and yet here he was, lying wide-awake in the dead of night, twisting his mind into knots. The Idiots had risen up and he was desperately trying to work out a way to stop them winning.
The answer wasn’t going to come to him tonight. With a heavy sigh, he kicked off his blanket and stood up. He reached for the jeans he’d dropped in a heap on the floor earlier that night. Sliding each leg into his trousers and hitching them up around his waist, he threw a glance towards the other sofa. For a moment, Dan thought he saw Jones’ sleeping there. He held his breath, rubbed his eyes and blinked against the shadows.
As he took a step towards the sofa, Dan reached out and grabbed at something soft, pulling it gently towards him. The dark outline revealed itself to be a large cushion. Cursing, he threw it back on to the sofa, strode across the room and grabbed his coat.
“What are you writing?”
Dan quickly lowered the lid on his laptop, hiding the screen from Jones’ view. He anxiously bit his fingernails. “Just something for work.”
Jones sat down next to Dan on the settee, nudging his thigh. “Let me see.”
Jones rested his chin on Dan’s shoulder and leaned forward, reaching towards the laptop and running his other hand around Dan’s back, up and under his shirt. Dan flinched as he felt Jones’ fingertips brushing along the top of his waistband. The tickles fluttered from his lower back down to his buttocks and into his balls, his cock twitching. He shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the stirring in his groin.
“No, Jones—”
Jones persisted. He slid his hand across the keyboard and clasped Dan’s left hand, leaning in close, half-moaning, half-whispering into his ear: “Take a break. You look tired.”
He slid his hand further between Dan’s thighs and fingered the zip of his flies. Dan shrugged away. “I have to finish this.”
Jones leaned forward again but Dan resisted. Jones stood up sharply, confused by Dan’s rebuff. “Can’t it wait?”
“No,” Dan said again, this time with finality, ignoring Jones’ gaze.
“Well, what’s it about?” Jones asked, his hands resting on his hips, suggesting that it had better be about something bloody good if Dan was prepared to shrug off his advances.
“It’s… it’s about…”
Dan stammered and hesitated. He flicked his gaze towards Jones and then back to the laptop screen, feeling his face burn with shame. He knew he should have pre-warned Jones about the Straight-On-Straight article but he was terrified about Jones’ reaction. He was trying to delay the inevitable shit-storm.
Fucking sell-out. Fucking hypocrite. Fucking coward.
“What? What, Dan?” A note of concern entered Jones’ voice when Dan didn’t reply. Dan lowered his eyes to the floor and mumbled into his chest, hoping somehow that he wouldn’t be heard.
“I wanked off a guy for money.”
There was silence. Dan glanced up at Jones and saw fear then nausea fall across his face. Jones gave a short laugh of disbelief, searching for words.
“Wha… Jesus fucking Christ, Dan! What else did you do? Snowball a monkey? “
Dan sighed and opened his mouth to explain that he’d performed the act and written the article for the money he owed Claire but suddenly he felt all energy leave him and could only sit limply on the sofa as Jones shouted and cursed, crashing around the room, throwing dolls and toys to the floor. He kicked at a half-empty coffee cup, sending it flying across the room, watching it smash against the far wall and spraying its contents. In a swift movement, Jones pounced upon Dan, pinning him down by his shoulders onto the seat of the settee, jabbing a finger at his face, burning with anger. Dan turned away as Jones spat his words in his face:
“I’ve been fucking patient with you and your obsessive griping about the Idiots, and now you do this? You’re a cunt!”
It was true: Dan had become vaguely aware that his continuous moaning about the Idiots had started to grate on Jones. It was what Dan did every night when he came home from work; railing against the Idiots and how Hoxditch was being taken over by them. Each night, Jones had tried to joke about it and calm Dan down but it was becoming increasingly difficult for him. There was no humour this time.
Jones slapped Dan’s cheek hard then pushed away from him. As Jones continued to rant and spit accusations, Dan remained prone on the sofa, staring straight up at the nicotine-stained ceiling. Eventually Jones stopped screaming. He stood over Dan, exasperated, flexing his fists. His broad handsome face was flushed crimson, breathing hard. Then he turned and left the room.
Dan heard the front door slam so hard that the vibrations shook the wall. As the room fell silent, he continued to lie there, unmoving, until it got dark.
The cold, damp air felt comforting. There was a time when the night felt full of promise and possibility. Now it just filled his head with shadows and menace. Dan paused and slid a hand into his coat pocket, fishing for his cigarettes. As he lit up, he glanced up at the slowly brightening sky with its fading stars and exhaled towards it. It seemed like only a few years ago that the stars were within easy reach, when he felt like he could jump up and grab them. He made a left-handed gesture towards the night sky but suddenly felt self-conscious and thrust his hand back into his pocket. He lowered his gaze and walked on, silently cursing himself. Everything he’d touched recently had turned to shit. He had no business trying to snatch some stardust.
As he continued to trudge wearily through the dawn-silent streets of Hoxditch, taunting images continued to flash across Dan’s increasingly tired brain. He screwed up his eyes in an attempt to make the images disappear for good. His vision blurred as he blinked and found himself standing outside the window of ‘The Place’ production office, dazzled by the fluorescent window lights. Plasma television screens displayed the same seven-digit hand, opening and closing its fingers on a continuous loop. Dan became fixated by the movement. The hand seemed to be reaching down from the sky towards him, like the hand of God. Each finger seemed to represent a fall down his staircase of shame and humiliation.
He counted along the hand; six agonising tumbles. But hang on—that left one finger: digit number seven. There was a finger remaining! Dan gave a snort of relief and grinned at the window, his wild, haggard features staring back in reflection. The skewed logic of his sleep-deprived mind persuaded him that the seventh finger meant that there was still time to get one over on the twunts of Hoxditch. There was still a chance! He could stop them winning! He thumped a fist against the window glass in triumph and turned back towards home, quickening his pace, muttering to himself and smiling up at the breaking dawn.
Dan concluded that the seven-fingered hand of God had guided him to this point. It had always pointed down at him from the sky, reaching through the stars, guiding him on. On this particular morning, it had seemed like divine intervention.
If Dan hadn’t walked past the ‘trashbat’ office at that exact moment, he wouldn’t have spotted Pingu lying face down on the ground, groaning in pain. He would also not have seen Nathan Barley standing over him, looking shifty and panic-striken.
If Dan hadn’t stopped and enquired after Pingu, he wouldn’t have noticed the black balaclava and gun poking out of Nathan’s pockets. And he certainly wouldn’t have discovered that the Idiot had taped the entire incident.
It was all too beautiful. Barley had handed himself to Dan on a plate; a victim of his own ridiculous and juvenile prank. Dan had the balance of power at last and it felt good. Fucking good.
Nathan had squirmed like a worm on a hook, asking Dan to stop, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Dan had complete control over Barley. There would be a public statement, written by Dan; his words, just for Nathan, to be broadcast on Barley’s wank-site. His words would be delivered by the King of the Idiots in the most humiliating way possible.
This would be Dan’s shining moment; the moment when he could finally stop the Idiot take-over and reverse the gradual and pervasive erosion of his life and his mind over past few weeks. He could stop it. HE could stop it.! The Idiots were not going to win. They couldn’t win. Dan would make sure of that.
He burst through the door of the ‘trashbat’ office wearing Barley’s balaclava, the gun held at shoulder height, pointing it at the room’s occupants. He heard a scream then saw Pingu run for the open window, throwing himself through it in a single leap.
It all quickly fell to pieces.
Dan perched uneasily on the second floor window ledge. Seized by panic, he shifted further along the cold concrete and peered down at the ground below, seeking escape from this nightmare come to life. He fidgeted against the ledge and was aware that the seat of his jeans felt slightly damp. The ground appeared to rise up and then retreat. His throat felt parched and his heartbeat pounded in his ears.
How the hell did I reach this point in my life?
He heard Claire call out to him, frightened and concerned, but he’d already made the decision to jump.
“Shut up,” Dan uttered in reply. He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the window ledge, falling towards the ground.
Dan’s eyelids felt as if they were made of lead. A pain pierced through his temple, causing him to wince. His brain undulated as he fought to make sense of his surroundings.
Work with the familiarities, Ashcroft.
The lights on the hospital ward had been dimmed and now cast a low light across the rows of beds. He heard the distant murmur from the radio and the occasional high-pitched laugh as staff shared a joke at the nurses’ station. An odour of bleach hung in the air.
There was something else, something new and unfamiliar. Dan gradually became aware of a heavy weight pressing on his stomach. Unable to lift his head very far, he felt with his hand along the bed covering, his fingertips soon coming into contact with a substance that he quickly identified as human hair. The weight suddenly moved and lifted from his stomach. Dan’s eyes widened in recognition as a handsome face loomed into view and grinned widely.
“Hello, dick-brain.”
Jones leant forward and ran a hand around Dan’s cheek, brushing across the extra stubble growth across his face. He placed a gentle, moist kiss on Dan’s forehead.
Dan gave a laugh of disbelief. Jones sat lightly on the edge of the bed, holding Dan’s left hand between his own. Dan choked back the feeling in his throat and raised the heel of his right hand to his face, rubbing at his eyes as if still not comprehending Jones’ presence.
“What time is it?” he croaked.
Jones glanced at his large blue Transformers wristwatch, squinting at the digital display.
“I’m dunno. My watch is broken and I fell asleep.” Jones wrinkled his nose, shivering and rubbing his eyes. “The silence is deafening in here.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Dan gazed fondly at Jones in the semi-darkness. He noticed that Jones carried a heavy-lidded look. Dan narrowed his eyes became serious in tone.
“How much have you taken, Jones?”
Jones picked at the bed covers and then looked guiltily at Dan. “It took me three pills and a spliff just to call for a cab to get here.”
Dan tutted and then beckoned Jones towards him. They embraced tightly, Dan burying his head in the crook of Jones’ neck. He knew that Jones had been shit-scared of coming to the hospital but he came. It didn’t matter that he had to get loaded just to get through the door.
Jones was here; that’s all that mattered. It was all that ever mattered.
Jones leant back and brushed away something at the corner of Dan’s mouth. Dan gently rubbed a thumb along Jones’ wrist and gazed back at him. For perhaps the first time in his life, Dan felt clear-headed and optimistic. He knew, with absolute certainty, what they had to do.
“Let’s get out of here.” Dan whispered.
Jones threw a glance towards the corridor. “OK, but I’ll have to sneak you out in a wheelchair when the duty nurse isn’t looking.”
Jones began to walk away but Dan grabbed at his wrist.
“No, Jones,” Dan’s voice sounded firm. He gripped Jones’ hand tightly, gaining his full attention. “Out of Hoxditch.”
Dan felt a huge weight lift from him as the words left his mouth. He realised that he’d wanted to say those words for a very long time.
The silence was broken by the distant melody of a cheesy pop hit coming from the nurse’s station. Jones studied Dan’s hand around his wrist, his brow furrowed. Dan held his breath. Jones looked back at Dan, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Alright.”
Dan gave a wolfish smile. This time they would make the leap together and it didn’t bother him one bit that neither of them knew where they were going to land.
