Crossed Wires
Part One
This was it.
Peter Doherty had been waiting for this moment for at least the two years, had scribbled down many different imaginings of it in his journals, doodled images of himself merrily waving off his family as he embarked upon his new life. Of course, that wasn’t quite what had happened, it had been more a case of his dad helping him up to his flat with his assorted belongings, making a few disparaging comments about the size of the room and then giving Peter a brisk handshake and a typically succinct, though no doubt heartfelt “Good luck son.” before heading back home.
But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Peter was no-longer an army-brat, shuttled between one town and the next in an ongoing cycle of displacement and inevitable disappointment. He was a university student. What’s more, he was a university student in London. Here he could walk the streets he had read about countless times, get lost in the mythology of Albion which seemed so alive in this city and, perhaps most importantly, talk to likeminded souls about poetry, music, love and all the dreams and ideals that had lived for so long inside his head, having not found a person fit to bestow them upon amongst the realms of sniggering school kids more interested in the reality-tv ‘Big Brother’ than anything written about by Orwell.
He placed his slightly shabby acoustic guitar in the corner with a pleased sigh, having finally transformed the bland décor of the university room into something of his own, with Smiths posters and scraps of poetry adorning the walls and the rather flimsy university bookshelf already overburdened with well-loved books and journals. He gave himself a small grin and headed out the door to discover what university life held.
* * * * *
“….and I chose Business Studies because, well, y’know there’s always work in business…”
“Mmm..” Peter made a non-committal sound to fill the halt in the babble of words that had been spewing out of the pretty - but rather vapid - blonde’s mouth since she had chosen to sit herself down next to Peter, who had been quite happy nursing a beer and silently contemplating his hatred of the general student population, who hadn’t quite lived up to his Herculean expectations.
Peter had stepped out of his room that first day expecting…..well, he wasn’t quite sure really, but far more than the overpriced beer and menial conversation that seemed to be the order of the day. Having reached the point where he thought he might have to stab forks in his eyes if forced to repeat the same ‘What’s your name?’, “Where d’you come from?”, “What’s your course?” combination once more, he had tried striking up a conversation about poetry with one girl, but had given up upon realising that she thought he was talking about the members of Westlife (This had dawned on him when she had asked if Keats was ‘the gay one’). All in all, he had singularly failed to meet any of the likeminded individuals he had imagined would be lining the halls at university, and was just slightly bitter about the whole situation.
But anyway, back to…what was her name again? Some thing beginning with a ‘C’ he was sure…Carol perhaps? Nah, couldn’t be that - he was sure he had never met a Carol under the age of thirty-five. Could be Kate maybe? She looked a bit like a Kate, the harsh, cut-off nature of the name would fit well with her striking, chiselled features. Well, it would do for now. Anyway, ‘maybe-Kate’ seemed to take his ‘mmm..’ as enough of a sign of interest to continue on her monologue, allowing Peter the chance to zone her words out and concentrate his attentions more fully on glaring at the various groups of students, in various states of intoxication, that filled the pub, which was one of these bright, trendy ones that seemed almost like they were aspiring to be clubs but hadn’t quite made the cut.
One figure in attention attracted the focus of his ire, standing in a group of assorted party-animal freshers, marked out by the cigarette clenched between his fingers (apparently no one had informed him of the smoking ban) and, instead of the alcopops or pints of the other students, a bottle of whisky, which he took regular swigs of. Drinking like he’s trying to forget himself, Peter thought, before reprimanding himself for wasting such a turn of phrase on Carl Barât - a drunken lout, who definitely wasn’t worthy of it or the respect that he seemed to have gained from managing to drink nearly his own body weight every night. Peter could barely walk through the city without overhearing various exclamations,
“ Did you see that Carl Barât last night? Johnny tried to keep up with him…not seen him in lectures for the last two days!”
“Carl Barât….he’s that one who drank the union’s supply of Jack Daniels in one night? What a legend!”
Peter had the distinct feeling that some of these rumours were more than slightly exaggerated (especially the one about him dropping a lit cigarette on the top of some poor unfortunate soul’s head from the roof of one of the university buildings…..because why on earth would he have been there in the first place?) but still, the sheer number of them had been enough for Peter to decide that Carl Barât was the embodiment of everything he had found himself hating about the student population - too many of whom seemed more interested in drinking and shagging than in intellect and dreams.
And so far, Peter hadn’t seen anything to disprove his assumption, although admittedly, the appearance of his chosen ‘Enemy No.1’ was a slight surprise. Peter had expected a big, burly, mean looking youth, not a compact form of dark hair, leather and sinfully red lips, seemingly permanently curled round a cigarette or the neck of a bottle…..and there Peter went again, off into the poetics! Really, this had to stop. He had no great urge to compose ‘Ode to the Drunken Layabout’ after all, and that was the way things were going.
Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) Peter was prevented from any further contemplation by ‘maybe-Kate’, who seemed to have finally realised that he had not been listening to a single word that she had been saying and was looking at him with a hurt and slightly exasperated expression. Peter tried for his best ‘apologetic-and-innocent’ face, after all, she was pretty.
“I’m sorry, just zoned out for a second. I was thinking about how beautiful you look in that top - it really brings out your eyes.”
He gave a slight, hopeful looking smile, hoping it would distract her from the blatant line. It was one of those techniques that really shouldn’t work, but it Peter’s experience it all too often did. He liked to think it was his honest, poetic soul shining through……it was more likely to just be that he attracted rather dim women.
Not ‘maybe-Kate’ however, she just arched an eyebrow and gave a short burst of cynical laughter.
“You really expect me to fall for that?” she asked incredulously, a small smirk playing around her features. Peter paused for a second, unsure of the right response. He had expected ‘maybe-Kate’ to either soak up the praise or stomp off in a fit at being ignored. He hadn’t expected dry amusement, especially not from this girl, who he had penned as being rather bland, but who now seemed as if she had both wits to go with her rather stunning looks. In fact, Peter found himself appreciating her more altogether. He only had to hope that his trend of ignoring everything she had so far said wouldn’t count too much against him.
“Well….maybe not.” He admitted, rather sheepishly, before a crash sounded from yards away, seeming to reverberate through the whole bar. They both turned to see the ‘notorious’ Carl taking a swing at a swarthy, tattooed gentleman who had informed him in a rather no-nonsense fashion of the no smoking ban by grabbing the cigarette from the youth’s grasp and putting it out on the bar’s waxy surface. Within moments the place had descended into a full-flung brawl between the students and the leather-clad, biker-types who seemed to be the pub’s natives. Even the barman joined in the fray, jumping over the bar into the mess of bodies, while Carl ducked and dived in the centre of it all, throwing punches in every direction like some sort of insanely violent ringmaster.
Peter had to prevent himself from joining in - he did like the undiluted chaos of down-and-dirty fights or riots, the exhilaration that came from flinging yourself into the action fists flying - because this was a brawl started by Carl Barât, and to do that might show some kind of allegiance to him. And, in Peter’s present frame of mind, showing allegiance to Carl Barât would be tantamount to...what was one of the worst things Peter could think of?…ah! punching Morrissey. That was what it would be equal to.
So, in the interests of keeping Morrissey’s metaphorical face in one piece, he restrained himself from joining in and instead turned to ‘maybe-Kate’, who was watching the action with wide eyes. “Fancy nipping outside for a fag?”
‘Maybe-Kate’ took a few seconds to respond, tearing her gaze away from the scene in front of her.
“Oh….not just now.” She held up her half full glass, “I’ve got to finish this.” He was awarded a quick flash of a smile. “You can go for one though, I’ll be fine by myself for a few minutes I’m sure.”
“Ah….okay,” Peter replied, trying to hide the slight disappointment in his tone. “I’ll buy you a drink when I get back okay?” he offered with a grin, which ‘maybe-Kate’ returned before flicking her gaze back to the fight, making Peter think that he might just have a chance with her after all, and it was with a smile on his face that he headed outside, sidestepping various scrapping youths on the way to the door.
When he returned, after shivering out in the cold, trying to huddle himself as far as possible into his quite fetching, and therefore absolutely useless providing warmth, jacket for almost twenty minutes (it turned out that he had forgotten his lighter, and had had to question three different people before he found someone willing to lend him one) the fight had drawn to a halt, and ‘maybe-Kate’ was no longer where they had been sitting. He frowned slightly, but then reasoned that he had been outside for a while, it was understandable that she had found someone else to talk to. He would just have to find her again.
He looked around, scanning the bar for a girl with blonde hair. There were various disgruntled looking youths, many looking rather the worse for wear, but no….ah! wait! There she was, talking with someone…no…kissing someone, someone who leant slowly in and whispered something in her ear, provoking a flirtatious giggle….someone who was, in all certainty, Carl Barât.
….Bastard.