Page 98 of A Night with Damien Spur

Damien had screwed up on the deal with Netflix, and he’d been so out of it for the last month that he’d forgotten to finish the screenplay ofWriting in the Sand.

He’d finally drifted off to sleep when the insistent chime of the electric doorbell woke him.

‘Okay… okay! I hear you.’ He staggered to the entry phone, eyes half shut. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. ‘God help you if you’re Bible pushers. I really don’t care if Jesus is coming back. Although, on second thoughts, he could be quite useful if I run out of vino.’

‘It’s your agent, in case you’ve forgotten you have one,’ Angus said.

‘Well, how thoughtful of you to come and remind me.’

‘Stop fooling around, Damien. Where’s the bloody script?’

‘In my head, Angus, don’t worry. Just need another few weeks to write it down. I’m very busy at the moment. Can I call you later?’

‘No,’ Angus said firmly. ‘I want to see you face to face.’

‘Okay, okay… just a second. I’m coming.’ He threw on his dressing gown, staggered down the stairs and flung open his front door. ‘Here I am.’ Damien stood barefoot in the doorway, squinting at the sunlight. ‘How can I help you, Angus? What’s the trouble?’

‘You’re the bloody trouble,’ Angus replied, staring at the dried blood caked round the edges of Damien’s nostrils and the grubby white piqué dressing gown. ‘You look terrible. For goodness’ sake, let me in.’

‘Of course.’ Damien bowed and waved him through with a flourish. ‘Please excuse the mess… To be honest, I’ve been preoccupied with personal matters and my last cleaner has gone back to Ireland. I think she only came here to have an abortion. Went off without any warning.’

Angus stood gaping at the slices of chewed pepperoni pizza, which had migrated from the cardboard box directly onto the surface of the coffee table, the empty whisky bottle lying on its side, an open wallet, a credit card and three rolled-up banknotes.

‘Oh, my God, you self-sabotaging fool, you need to get yourself sorted out.’

He scanned Damien’s glazed, dark-rimmed, soulless eyes. ‘What sort of psychodrama are you creating this time?’

‘Elizabeth’s the trigger. I know I’ve always been a mad muller, but this time the evil witch has pushed me right to the edge of the cliff and I’m about to fall off and to tell you the truth I don’t give a damn. It’s my karmic punishment. I swear to God, if Laura was still alive, I would treasure her and never touch another woman again. What a fool I was. I could have saved her. Instead, I screwed everything that moved, and she knew it.’ Damien bit the back of his hand.

Angus grasped his arm. ‘Don’t do that!’ He hated histrionics from anyone. And his star writer was losing his grip. ‘Look, I feel sorry for you,’ he said, ‘but what gives you the right to screw up things for everyone else? If you don’t deliver the screenplay by the end of next week, my reputation will be in the shit. They’ll say I can’t handle the horses in my stable. The deadline was yesterday. You’ve been given a huge advance – how could you be so irresponsible?’

‘Money,’ Damien said. ‘Sometimes it gets in the way and obstructs the path of my existential angst, but essentially I know my journey is between me and God.’

‘Don’t give me that esoteric gibberish.’ Angus waved at the table of powdery residue. ‘What else have you been taking?’

‘Just a touch of MDMA, Angus. You should try some. You’ll feel all loved up and want to kissy cuddle everyone. Anyway, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you, but I’m sorry, you’ll have to go. I need to get dressed for a wedding reception.’

‘I don’t think you can pull back from this one, Damien. You’ve broken the clause in your contract. I only hope that you haven’t sniffed all the advance up your nose, because I am certainly not bailing you out.’ And he was gone.

Damien’s nose had started bleeding again. He went to the bathroom, took another sheet of toilet paper and pushed it into his nostrils. He pressed his face to the bathroom mirror. ‘Just between you and me,’ he whispered, ‘I think my time’s up.’ His hot breath clouded his reflection.

Pull yourself together, Damien Spur, you selfish bastard, and get dressed,the Voicesaid.

‘I don’t know where my clip-on dickie is.’

Next to the self-tie in the box on top of your dresser, the Voice said.

Damien smiled at himself. ‘Clip-on dickie, best friend when you’re high.’

Try not to make a fool of yourself, the Voicesaid.

‘But it’s going to hurt seeing Elizabeth with another man… Well then, see you later. Please don’t give up on me.’

You need to listen to me, Damien. I know you better than anyone, the Voice said.

Damien showered and struggled into his clothes. Thank God his nose had stopped bleeding.

‘Bloody hell! Where are all my cufflinks?’ Damien had opened the left-hand drawer of his desk where he kept them in a small velvet pouch.

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