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Johnny half-dragged, half-carried the man he knew only as Gingham. It was a random name, but he was definitely ginger, and had pink skin and a permanent sweaty smell that reminded Johnny of ham, so Johnny had to admit the name suited him fine.
Gingham lolled on Johnny’s shoulder, drool dripping from his lip. At this time of night, in this part of town, any onlooker would just assume the pair were friends and Johnny was dragging Gingham home after too much to drink. Or dragging Gingham for a greasy burger then on to the next bar for some more to drink.
But Johnny was in too much of a panic to realise what an unsuspicious situation he was in. He’d thought to press his own hat onto Gingham’s head, and that was covering the blood dripping from the man’s skull well enough, but anyone nosey enough to come close would see the red smears down Gingham’s neck, on Johnny’s front, see the bunny-in-the-headlights panic in Johnny’s eyes.
Johnny limped towards the pier. Gingham was heavy, which hadn’t surprised Johnny at all, but Johnny was lifting him more on adrenaline than on his own strength, and as they left the buildings behind for the empty beach Johnny’s adrenaline was dwindling fast.
Johnny started down the stairs but surrendered, and let Gingham stop, drop and roll the rest of the way. He followed, clinging tight to the banister.
Gingham moaned as the stairs gave way to sand. Johnny froze at the sound, and darted the rest of the way.
The hat had fallen off Gingham’s head to reveal the large split in the corner of his skull. The little canyon seemed to have expanded on the journey, and Johnny could see a strip of brain almost an inch wide. Johnny fought the urge to touch it, to run a finger over the grooves and folds of Gingham’s most underused organ.
Johnny pressed the hat back into place, ignoring the way the fabric squelched under his hand. He hoisted Gingham into a fireman’s lift and trundled along the sand. His sneakers left deep indents behind him.
Johnny dumped Gingham by the grate and fiddled with the lock. It took his three full attempts to remember his own passcode, 3-3-0-3, and when the padlock finally clicked he threw the gate open and hauled Gingham inside.
Inside, with no one to watch him, Johnny let both his adrenaline and his anxiety drop, and dragged Gingham upstairs by his arms. Gingham’s legs dragged after him, and one of his shoes fell off on the way up.
Johnny dropped Gingham on the floor of the pad. A handful of litter sat in one corner, looking sad. The rest of the pad was desolate and abandoned, not even graffitied. Sometimes Johnny would sit here and ponder over covering one of these walls with butterflies and maybe a couple of skulls. He wasn’t the most artistic person but it’d keep him busy. And if he passed out on the paint fumes it didn’t count as a relapse because paint is perfectly legal.
Gingham was silent. Johnny pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. Gingham was staring straight at him, and Johnny’s heart thudded overtime once again.
“I’m sorry, man,” Johnny said, “It was an accident, I swear.”
Gingham stared back. Drool was bubbling over his lips and sucked back in as Gingham breathed, slow and shallow.
“It was an accident,” Johnny said again. He put the phone between then, flashlight shining out to illuminate the room. It twinkled in the cobwebs and glittered white spots into Johnny’s vision as he lay himself next to Gingham.
They lay together for hours. The smell of sweat and salt surrounded Johnny, wide awake and counting his solitary breaths. Gingham lay, still and silent as a slaughter pig.
Johnny forced himself upright. He grabbed Gingham by the ankles and dragged.
Gingham’s arms splayed out like a cross, and Johnny had to force them over Gingham’s head to get him through the doorway again. He heaved and pulled, and let gravity drag Gingham down the stairs after him.
Salt water splashed and soaked into Johnny’s sneaker. The tide had risen and climbed up the steps, churning in the stairwell. The gate stood open at the bottom, submerged by a full six inches.
Johnny stepped down, and the salt water climbed the leg of his jeans. He stepped again, deeper, and deeper again, and deeper again.
Gingham floated on the surface of the water, bobbing in the churning current. Johnny pulled him along as the water climbed up to his shoulders and the steps fell out of his reach. He doggy-paddled over the last few steps until he reached the final corner.
Johnny took a deep breath. He forced himself down, one hand on the top of the gate, the other tight on the scruff of Gingham’s neck. Johnny wrestled Gingham down and the water swallowed them both eagerly.
The current wrapped around them both, coaxing Johnny out to the open abyss. Johnny clung to the gate, and pushed Gingham out as sacrifice.
Gingham hung in the gateway, suspended. Eat your heart out, Damien Hirst. Johnny shoved on Gingham’s leg and he floated out, slowly at first, like a confused insect. Then the current finally accepted him and pulled him away.
Johnny burst up for air, and it greeted his lungs with delicious salt and cold. The current dragged on his legs, greedy and determined to take him too.
Johnny pushed away from the wall and scrabbled for the steps. His sneaker caught between the bars of the gate and Johnny flailed. The water closed over his head and flooded his mouth and lungs. The stone steps opposite bruised his hands and wrists as he reached for them, refusing to be gripped and letting Johnny slip away, deeper into the water.
The gate shuddered against the wall as Johnny struggled for freedom. He twisted and reached for his shoe, his chest aching to open up for air. Johnny gripped his shoelaces and pulled. The weak knot unravelled like it was a relief to do so, and his foot was surrendered from its tattered prison.
Johnny burst out of the water onto the steps. He choked as he climbed, dragging himself up the stone until he was free, laid alive on the dry land Gingham died on, baptised in salt and pollution.