50 scenes: Insomnia
He'd been stationed in Washington by the Foreign Office, and since he'd taken up living in Kim Philby's home he couldn't sleep. He'd go through several days of belligerently maddening nights, his only cure a bottle of whatever liquor he'd chosen to sedate himself with. But that was exactly what it was, this drunken and self-induced innocuous state. It was sedation, and he was always so tired... so very bloody tired.
He never slept, and couldn't. So he did the only thing a man of his sort can do when denied that precious rest: he lived every fucking day as though he intended to never sleep another night again. If he was to be a captive of consciousness, he would make it his.
He threw boisterous parties at the Philby house--much to the lady's protests--and made a show of experimenting his way through the men that attended. He seldom went a night without company though he couldn't help but notice a lacking comfortable scene amongst the American ponces. Perhaps that would always be a part of that posh England. But this was sweet America; the only lingering bit of English was Kim Philby's protesting wife. The poor woman, with her spotted dogs and tasteless custard, poems and bird watching. Guy didn't give a damn, and she endured her husband's allowance of Guy's indulgent parties and the variant men who did not leave until morning.
Perhaps Kim knew that he needed those raucous gatherings... that the reasoning behind loud swing and adoringly drunk attendees was to burn away the hours of restlessness. And so, most nights would begin with gin in hand, ending with some stowaway homsosexual in the upper rungs of those great American domes. They all fell to bed a little differently, and each lithe body occupied him when sleep refused.
One night, there was no party. He pittied poor Mrs. Philby and spent the evening in the parlor. An empty loveseat cushion kept him company when the frighteningly friendly country did not, and he sipped the hours away slowly, glass by glass. Each minute lengthened before him and slipped from the room so languorously, that by the time ten o'clock came about, he was near catatonic with a touch of madness. Kim came in, pulled on his shoulders and guided him to the guest room designated as his. Somewhere between the initial coax and the upward stumble, he apologized, leaning beneath the arm of one dear friend. He vaguely remembered hearing Kim snort.
Kim didn't leave him, that night, but opened one of Guy's volumes and read his way through The Merry Wives of Windsor while Guy became lost.
For a single night, he slept, only awoken when Kim, with dark circles beneath his eyes, rose from the chair to leave for work.
"We have some salt of our youth in us," Guy muttered.
"Go the hell back to sleep."
Kim strangled a smile, and Guy scarcely saw it before his eyes pulled shut again, heavy and burdened with deathly sleepiness. It would be another week before he saw sweet rest such as this again, before Kim would pick up a volume and read him touches of Harry late into the night.
He never slept, and couldn't. So he did the only thing a man of his sort can do when denied that precious rest: he lived every fucking day as though he intended to never sleep another night again. If he was to be a captive of consciousness, he would make it his.
He threw boisterous parties at the Philby house--much to the lady's protests--and made a show of experimenting his way through the men that attended. He seldom went a night without company though he couldn't help but notice a lacking comfortable scene amongst the American ponces. Perhaps that would always be a part of that posh England. But this was sweet America; the only lingering bit of English was Kim Philby's protesting wife. The poor woman, with her spotted dogs and tasteless custard, poems and bird watching. Guy didn't give a damn, and she endured her husband's allowance of Guy's indulgent parties and the variant men who did not leave until morning.
Perhaps Kim knew that he needed those raucous gatherings... that the reasoning behind loud swing and adoringly drunk attendees was to burn away the hours of restlessness. And so, most nights would begin with gin in hand, ending with some stowaway homsosexual in the upper rungs of those great American domes. They all fell to bed a little differently, and each lithe body occupied him when sleep refused.
One night, there was no party. He pittied poor Mrs. Philby and spent the evening in the parlor. An empty loveseat cushion kept him company when the frighteningly friendly country did not, and he sipped the hours away slowly, glass by glass. Each minute lengthened before him and slipped from the room so languorously, that by the time ten o'clock came about, he was near catatonic with a touch of madness. Kim came in, pulled on his shoulders and guided him to the guest room designated as his. Somewhere between the initial coax and the upward stumble, he apologized, leaning beneath the arm of one dear friend. He vaguely remembered hearing Kim snort.
Kim didn't leave him, that night, but opened one of Guy's volumes and read his way through The Merry Wives of Windsor while Guy became lost.
For a single night, he slept, only awoken when Kim, with dark circles beneath his eyes, rose from the chair to leave for work.
"We have some salt of our youth in us," Guy muttered.
"Go the hell back to sleep."
Kim strangled a smile, and Guy scarcely saw it before his eyes pulled shut again, heavy and burdened with deathly sleepiness. It would be another week before he saw sweet rest such as this again, before Kim would pick up a volume and read him touches of Harry late into the night.