Epiphany

He narrows his eyes somewhat at his reflection in the mirror, leaning in for a minute to check his eyebrows before finally putting down the tweezers. Eventually, he addresses me over the wet slapping sound of hair gel being rubbed between his hands.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the dressing room, Warwick.”

I glance up from the cigarette that I’m rolling and shift irritably in my seat. He’s probably right to object; the smoke’ll drive a bloke up the wall even before the Change, but then likewise to all the chemicals he smears all over himself.

“You shouldn’t give me an ashtray, then. I’m not going to enjoy it, if that’s any consolation.” It’s true. I only need it to light the next one. “Good gig tonight, I thought.”

“Nh.” He shrugs, adding a bit of definition to his fringe. He won’t be mollified: he’s twitchy, and to be honest, so am I. Our time of the month, I guess. I see his lips curl with contempt, observed vicariously through his reflection.

My lighter takes a good five or six clicks to ignite, and when it manages it the flame is ailing, orange, dirty and feeble. I rush it to my cigarette as quickly as I dare before tossing the cheap plastic thing into the bin. Finally he turns to me, eyes calculating and clearly displeased. He doesn’t like what he sees.

“You know you almost look wilder as a human.” I take my feet off the coffee table and shrug. I am who I am, and it doesn’t seem to put him off too much: if I want to look like crap then ultimately that’s my business, and Mark appreciates that. I understand why he goes to all this effort over his appearance, of course, fussing about with all his little bottles and tubes and tiny metal instruments: he needs to reassure himself that he’s more human than animal – or perhaps he just needs to have something to take a break from for three nights a month. “Webster’s trying to get rid of you; I think he’s even started asking around for another fiddler interested in joining. He thinks you’re spoiling our image.” Well, fair enough, I don’t exactly mesh seamlessly with the other folks. I pick at the ragged holes in my jeans, nearly burning the flesh of my thigh with my rollup. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Webster wearing jeans at all, nor Mark. They’d certainly never walk around with the New Forest growing out of their faces like I do.

“’S because Webster’s more worried about how he looks holding that guitar of his than whether he can play for shit.” I take a drag, knowing that Mark won’t be pacified by my reply. “How d’you feel about it?”

“Can’t let you go. You owe me money.” He manages a smile, reaching for his tailored jacket. Ash-grey, slightly opalescent. Very Bohemian.

“That your way of saying ‘I love you’?” I get up and squeeze his shoulder, rather expertly flicking my cigarette into the ‘tray. He smiles again (he has a nice smile. High cheekbones), moving in to kiss me on the forehead – he has to bow my head with the gentle application of his hand, and still stands on his tiptoes to do it.

“This isn’t love. Come on; we need to go.” He shrugs his jacket about his slim shoulders and moves to the door. Picking up my own coat, I follow him outside. There’s a bit of a breeze, and the sunlight’s evidently just taken on the auburn tint of evening; it’s still warm, warm enough to make the sheepskin lining of my outer garments seem about eighteen inches too thick. I pull the coat off again, feeling a little foolish as we make our way over to the car. Just another thing to worry about tomorrow morning.

As we drive out of the alley and into the street, I notice that there aren’t many folks about this evening, nor are there any other cars on the road. Wednesday night for you. The radio is playing some whining pretend-punk song: judging by the singer’s voice, I’d guess that the young lad’s testicles have a good couple of years to wait before they descend. I leave it and stare at my hands, at the nasty orange-brown tobacco stains on my forefingers and thumbs, then out of the window once more. “You want to get something to eat first?” I ask Mark as a Cypriot takeaway crawls past the pane. Why is he driving so damn slowly? “Something vegetarian?”

He doesn’t reply at first, just stops, literally slamming on the brakes in the middle of the street, then gives a little grunt. “Yuh. Something vegetarian.”

Fine by me. In three days’ time I’ll have had enough meat to eat to last me until – well, until this time next month. I shuffle into the takeaway once I persuade Mark to pull over to the curb and order two portions of falafel. They take an age to arrive, and I’m not feeling so very fucking great all of a sudden: I’m left twitching beside the counter, one leg jiggling furiously, sweat beading on my forehead – I can actually feel it happen – trying not to look at the ultra-violet insect trap across the room. Great smears of purple light sweep across my vision, and now I feel nauseous (achingly, absolutely nauseous) and ravenous both at once. The radio in here’s playing the same shit as in the car, and it feels as though my head's filling up with sand. I suspect that I seem as though I’m deep in the grip of heroin withdrawal, and the unspeakably healthy-looking Canadian bloke who passes me the two polystyrene cartons of food notices it, clearly. He asks me if I’m alright and I do my best to nod my head without plummeting towards the linoleum floor. As I turn to go, I can tell, actually physical smell – his relief that I’m getting the hell away from him.

Mark isn’t doing any better than I am: when I get back to the car he has his head on the steering wheel, cushioned by his arms. I put the food on the dashboard and rest my hand between his shoulder blades, feeling the smooth material of his jacket beneath my sweaty palm.

“Oi. C’mon mate, eat something, yeah?” I don’t overdo it with the touchy-feely stuff: I know that the last thing I’d want right now would be to have some scruffy, bearded second-rate musician feeling me up. Eventually he lifts his head and reaches for one of the cartons, hands trembling so badly that he nearly spills tzatziki-covered lettuce all over the interior of the car. He takes a bite from the stuffed pitta bread: I watch him masticating slowly, eyes screwed tightly shut; I wait until he has swallowed that before tucking in myself. Although my stomach’s doing acrobatics worthy of the Moscow State bloody Circus right now, the arrival of this wholesome, weighty morsel does it a world of good. I take a couple of greedy gulps of air, tensing my stomach muscles to drag the oxygen down into the depths of my much-abused lungs. I hear Mark give a gasp and turn back to him: he looks like shit on toast, for all his preening. Pretty people have so much more to lose, I guess.

“I think…Warwick, I think wimmight have less time'n I ‘ssumed.” His speech, normally crisp and immaculate, is starting to slur, “Wha’ we go’n’ do?” He doesn’t look like he’s in any position to be driving now. Poor Mark. He feels it a damn sight worse than anyone else I’ve ever met: I suppose deep down he’s just too delicate, and too human: there’s not enough dog in him, and that’s why it always comes on so difficult. I’ve held his head before and had him cry into my lap, but right now I’m not up to cuddling anybody.

I demolish my snack, and lean over to open his door for him. “Get in the back; I’ll drive. Strap yourself in.” The words howl in my own ears, driving themselves like shrapnel through my skull. It’s perfectly normal, I tell myself, just like it’s perfectly normal that I can smell sweat and cigarettes and whisky and piss and paint rolling off a bloke forty yards down the street. The cocktail of aftershave and balms and ointments and gels coming off Mark is so strong I have to wind down all the windows before I do anything else. No good going to the usual place now; can’t risk being near people. Got to get out of town. As I turn the key in the ignition, the rumble of the engine sweeps through my mind like a thunderstorm married to a freight train, but I have enough of a grip to shrug it off. From the groans emanating from the back seat I suspect that Mark has not been so fortunate. I wrench the car out onto the street, wincing as someone behind me sounds their horn, long and loud. Fuck off. Need to move. I drive and drive and drive, jumping lights without even realising I’m doing it and speeding the wrong way up a one-way street. It doesn’t matter. Woe betide any policeman who follows us where we’re going. I’m still feeling lousy, but that’s OK: just the person being replaced by Wolf from the inside out. I hurtle along the roads, mindful only of the darkening sky and the accelerator beneath my foot, and the whimpering, pitiful form of my friend rolling about behind me. Didn’t strap himself in.

It’s nearly dark by the time we’re clear of the city and out onto the sands. I slew the car to a halt: stiff grey-and-black hairs are already sprouting on my knuckles as I open my door.

The sea breeze is fresh and wonderful: for a minute, all is perfectly still and serene. I can marvel at what is happening to my pretty friend and I, despite the frantic, sickening chaos of it all. Soon everything will become completely natural; soon I will experience the epiphany of being wolf and man inhabiting the same body, before my consciousness slips beyond that which can be related through any human language.

I cast my eyes up to the silvery disc overhead and its long, lovely reflection in the waters stretching out before us. I want to sing, but I open my mouth and scream instead.

Behind me – very close behind me – Mark joins in.