Graham Roos

Work
	Drugs, Narcotics, Acid I’d always tried to live a healthy life. At school, I played a lot of rugby and never really went in for fags and booze. I didn’t think it was remotely cool. Looking back from where I am now I think to myself... It wasn’t as if I took drugs, I liked to look after myself and keep myself fit. That’s changed now although you’d never know to look at me. I look better than ever, and I know what they said but I just can’t quite get my head round it. Everything changed after I’d been living in London for a few years. I soon found that my rhythm became much more in tune with the night. At first, I was feeling more energetic after I ‘d come back from work. So I found myself going out with the lads from time to time. It wasn’t long after that I began to get a craving for spirits. Then, when we were all out one evening things changed. It would never have entered my head to get mashed on a school night. But that night was different. A new mate of mine, Mike, asked me what I wanted to drink. Vodka, I replied. Not long after I discovered the genie that’s tequila. If I liked vodka, he said, I would just love tequila. And that became my new drink. Tequila slammers at lap dancing bars, staying up until three, sometimes four in the morning. By now I was going out from Wednesday through to Sunday afternoon and I felt fantastic. Soon, it became inevitable that I would be at it all week, often going without sleep. But it didn’t effect my job. My mind had never been so fired up and I would be on the computer all night finding patterns in global trading no one had ever seen before. Then, it was a Sunday afternoon at some dive in Dean Street that Mike introduced me too the green fairy. Absinthe was the door to a whole new realm of pleasures. This radioactive green liqueur sent my mind racing and delved down even further into my soul. I could stand outside myself and vaguely see the outlines of the mechanics of existence. Now you might think that this is the confession of some sad, deluded booze hound, raw on drink and coffee and cigarettes. But you would be so wrong. I was looking great! I seemed to be existing on only three or four hours a night, but still fresh when I woke up. Fresh, compared to the magic hour of six pm that is. That was when my life force seemed to kick in. The witching hour I used to call it. It seemed a natural progression when I began taking drugs, but nothing had prepared me for the pleasures of acid and Ketamine! By now Mike had introduced me to the joys of nightclubs. You could go from Friday night to Monday morning , entirely in the womb of clubland without ever having to go to sleep or go to bed. By now, through all the endless dancing I was doing, I had become really fit and Mike had started me off on drug cocktails. Everyone looked great, you felt horny and empathetic. I suppose it all had to catch up with me sooner or later. My past started to matter. I had forgotten who I was. I became disgusted with myself. The cheap lays, the endless hardcore partying. It was not who I was meant to be. It wasn’t that my work was suffering. The opposite in fact. But one morning as I came home from a night out there was a message on the machine from my mother. Her gentle, kind voice, pierced my arrogance and irritated me and humbled me all at the same time. What the fuck did I think I was doing, I thought to myself and I began to cry like a child. There was only one thing to be done. I had to go home and sort myself out. Next day I took the train back to Yorkshire. I wanted to collect my thoughts. My father picked me up from the station. He seemed older, white haired and gentle as he drove me back to the house in the country, slowly, meticulously. But inside I was angry, I wanted him to put his foot on the accelerator, give it some speed, but he just gently plodded on as he always did. My mother greeted me anxiously at the door. She knew something was wrong but was puzzled when she saw me. There I was, I seemed to have grown taller, slimmer but more muscular. Her eyes spoke volumes though, which irritated me more. There was something deeply wrong within me and she knew it too. At first she cooked big healthy meals but I couldn’t eat them. I tried sleeping lots but I was always awake. Far from making me feel better I was feeling worse, physically at least. But I didn’t look bad. So I tried to pass the time by pretending to eat the food, mashing it up and hiding it behind the potatoes or lettuce. And I smiled and pretended I was going to have an early night but I would secretly wait for them to go to bed. Then I would sneak downstairs and get on my laptop playing with fractals and chaos. Eventually however, as was only a matter of time, I couldn’t stand it any more and I knew I had to go and see a doctor. I felt like a vampire except I could go out in the day. I said my goodbyes as my poor mum looked deep, searching into my eyes for what was wrong. But how could I tell her when even I didn’t know what was wrong. I cursed the day I had moved to London and met Mike. When I got back to my apartment in Clerkenwell there were a few messages one of which was from Mike. It said “I’ll see you soon.” Which I thought was odd at the time. I rang a private doctor I knew. Someone had to help me. The appointment was not for a week and slowly I reverted to my old ways. But strangely, rather than feel worse I felt better. I began to feel calm again, with renewed health and vigour. When I got to see Dr. Jones I was pleasantly surprised to find an attractive brunette in her early thirties at her clinic in south Kensington. I explained the problem, telling her all about the alcohol and drugs. She did a few tests but even she was stumped. So she took some blood and sent it off for analysis. There was a scientist she knew, she said, who might be able to help me. A week went by as I waited. Just to feel normal I was drinking a bottle of tequila a day and staying out until five in the morning. Then the phone call came. I had to meet Dr. Jones and her friend at a laboratory in Imperial College off Knightsbridge. I was sweating with anxiety when I arrived. Surely they must have some answers. I was greeted by Dr. Jones and shown into a lab room where a middle aged man with thinning blond hair was sitting by a computer. “Sit down Mr. Connelly.” the man pointed to a chair. Then he summoned Dr. Jones over to him and they whispered something to each other as they looked at me. “No need to worry. We’ve been seeing a lot of this.” “What, what is it, what’s wrong?” they exchanged glances. “It’s this. I don’t quite know how to put it...” “Just tell me, am I terminally ill, for God’s sake just tell me.” “Very well, but you must keep this secret for a while whilst we assess the extent of the transformation.” “Transformation?” “Yes. You see Mr. Connelly, for some reason, which we don’t understand as yet, evolution seems to be speeding up. We think it is something to do with living a fast life in a big city and certainly drugs must play a part, but there is, must be, some other factor we can’t quite place as yet...” “Well?” “Your DNA has undergone some changes...” “What?’ “Mutations to help you survive in your environment. You are by no means the first. You have adapted Mr. Connelly, adapted to your lifestyle?” “I don’t understand?’ “Neither do we at present. but all we can tell you is there seems to be no immediate threat to your life.” “Is it irreversible?” Again exchanged glances. “At this stage we can’t be sure.” “What should I do?” “I’m afraid you must carry on as you were.” “What do you mean? “We suggest a continuation of your drug and alcohol consumption. Mr. Connelly, you are lucky, there are many in this city who would kill for such a constitution.” He paused and took off his spectacles to look at me more closely. “Mr Connelly, you are evolving. Your genetic make up is changing to match the modern life. The worst thing you could do is to try and live a healthy, sober life right now. I must warn you, if you do, if you stop drinking and taking drugs, it may very well kill you.”