For a Song [#Wattys 2015]

Chapter 9

Hilly

I woke up nestled in a pile of sheets in a lumpy bed that wasn't mine. In fact, it was barely a bed at all, more like quickly thrown together cot, my head resting on sofa pillows, draped by rough blankets. As my head pounded and I took in the unfamiliar smells; patchouli, sandalwood- part music festival, part new age hippy store- and the unmistakeable stench of burned out weed I dimly tried to work out the events of last night and found I couldn't. Panic came when I realised my leggings were strewn across the pillow beside me, and only intensified when I looked over a narrow shelf, one that was covered with cactuses, books about tantric sex positions and tobacco shreds and out of a small circular window and I saw a line of ducks swimming past because the room was in the water.

What the hell did you do, Hilly Engels?

The whole sorry Dylan Dorian debacle at the Earth Cafe was still way too fresh in my memory- more's the pity- but after that the evening had descended into a blur. Fueled by the bump to my head and by the alcohol that had made my mouth drier than Ghandi's flip-flops. Part of me was staying I should just stay where I was, stay in the sheets because I could have found myself in the home of a serial killer and I needed to work out just how I was going to escape- presumably not out of the window unless I fancied an early morning swim. Another part of me was just so damn thirsty that I would have taken on both Ted Bundy and Jack the Ripper just to get to a glass of water with ice in it.

After getting up, I pulled on my leggings. There was no door in the room, just a tie-dye curtain someone had tried to stitch wonky white elephants onto. It separated where I was sleeping from the rest of the place, I assumed. And I realised that there were people behind it, a man and a woman speaking to one another.

"Bleugh! What is this?" asked the man.

"It's raw pu-er. Fermented tea from China," the woman answered.

"More like poo- er. Yeah, you can definitely taste the fermented part. I'd kill for a Starbucks right now."

"Do you have to use such foul language in my home?"

"What, Starbucks? Oh yeah, I'd love a venti cappuccino with an extra shot. Maybe even a muffin to go with it."

"Jesus, Spirit."

"Starbucks, Starbucks, Starbucks."

"Who are you?"

"Another brainwashed consumer coffee drone in the hive of gentrified, homogenous capitalism and bloody loving it."

Oh no. The more he talked, the more I realised that I recognised the voice. Answering questions in interviews I'd watched on youtube more than in real life where we'd not said many words to each other at all- none of them particularly kind. Dylan Dorian. Dylan Dorian. He was here and I was here- just a few inches of material separating us. And when I pulled it back, I didn't know if I was going to go weak at the knees or rush up to him and grab him by the throat.

I did it anyway, just as the woman's voice could be heard saying,"When I wanted to rebel against my parents I lived in a commune in Marrakech. Now my son has become firmly entrenched in the establishment I fought so hard against."

On the other side of the curtain was the rest of the narrow canal boat, for that's what all the evidence was pointing to it being. Wood paneling lined the walls, there was a small kitchen, a few cosy chairs and a bench table that the two were sitting on with their mugs of poo tea and the remnants of breakfast along with a newspaper spread out on it. The whole place had a cozy, welcoming and bohemian sort of feel to it- which served in contrast to the frosty reception I received.