Mayflies

by Andrew O'Hagan

Originality is a gambler, and Tully stepped down from his chair the best sort of hero, the best sort of hero in those parts, a comedian. The lords of extinction were suddenly on our side and the drink flowed and the ashtray was full.

Who would I call, I wondered, if I stepped into the phone box? And the answer – so free of regret – was no one. I had no one to call and I was quite glad about it.

I’d never felt so part of the world, so part of its weather.

our friend Limbo at the International, was a mighty, sovereign, ravenous creature in love with more for more’s sake.

He drank like that, too: as if oblivion was a perfect place to be by yourself.

understood why Tully hadn’t stayed at home that weekend, but it revealed something cold in him, maybe a thing we had in common.

Everyone was leaning towards the stage, emotional and ready for the arrival of something we couldn’t exactly place. And up in the seating area they waved their arms and I felt the magic of association. It was like a wave of empathy and trepidation all at once and I wanted those people to be cared for.

We beamed to the rafters and jumped shoulder to shoulder. And the words we sang were daft and romantic and ripe and British, custom-built for the clear-eyed young.

Somebody threw a handful of glitter in the air. Another Rasta gave me a slug of his beer. Somebody gave me a kiss.

Somebody

every man should be just gay enough.

He wanted further adventures, more time, more everything, and he liked the darkness in the marble halls.

The water was cold but it soon warms up when the boys are made of sunshine.

‘We all die like pricks,’ I said.

‘In our family, we knew how to care for other people, but not each other. My parents just weren’t equipped.

I could find in relentless occupation what I could never find in helplessness: a way through.

I wasn’t sure what I owed him, or what I owed him for, but the sense of duty was there, as well as the love.

he didn’t quite believe the world beyond himself could halt his ideas.

‘I know none of us has a monopoly on grief, but I’m struggling.’ ‘We each have a monopoly on our own,’ I said.

‘Set me free. That’s all.’

You are a human being. And that’s an unstable condition that ends badly for all of us.’

The thing we know is that humanity has a hundred per cent mortality rate. We all die. But the facts don’t matter