A lack of reason had brought me to my current situation, blatantly ignoring every stop sign and flashing red light. Crashing through the barriers at full speed, hurtling towards an unseen edge. So now I'm flying, waiting for the final impact, the part where in the movie, the end credits roll, the audience shuffles from the cinema to grab a pizza before driving home for lazy, adequate sex. The world moves on and leaves the losers behind. The world waits for what follows, a new fall from grace, another few minutes of scandal over the soggy morning cornflakes and cheap filter coffee before heading off to work.
I daren't show my face just yet, wait a while. The paparazzi outside my Kensington flat will tire of waiting. Well, all but a handful of diehards who were previously so beneficial to my wonderful career: reporting the drunken late nights at clubs, the occasional brawls that improved my standing with the young male fans. Those guys will wait and wait. Pick through my garbage, probe the postman for details as he delivers words of feigned, bitter disappointment from my agent Larry. Stare up at my windows, sneering and laughing.
The bathroom mirror was once my friend, but now it too has rejected me. In place of me it shows some unshaven, unkempt idiot with heavy bags under his dull lifeless eyes. I smell of booze and sweat and expensive cologne. A long shower can remove those pollutants but can't remove the deeper stench that surrounds me now. Edward Harris-Jones: fallen star, washed-up middle-aged child molester. That guy from the television who shagged the teenager in his car. Then tried to pay him off, then tried to pay his family off. The photographs in the 'News Of the World'; the secret recording, the brown envelope of cash passed over in Paddington station. What a performance, my best role ever, the sick queer. Bravo! Encore!
Of course the boy knew what he was doing, fifteen going on thirty-five he was. But that's no excuse, I know. It wasn't the first time for me to pick some fresh fruit, everyone knows that, it's common knowledge. The rumours about Eddie H-J have been out there for years, but no hard evidence before, nothing that stuck, nothing to hang me with. The pain in my stomach is intense and spreading. I must stop myself from vomiting. Got to keep the pills down, no point in being found only half-dead, what an indignity that would be! What a total humiliation. Those pills in my bathroom cabinet were just too tempting. Left by the countless young things who spent the night in my bed. A lovely cocktail of colourful pills that just begged to be swallowed.
My head feels fuzzy, my vision blurred. The pain is spreading, I am sweating profusely. So this is how it feels. It's difficult to concentrate now, difficult to... to... think. This voice recorder is heavy... in my hand. I think I'd better lie down on my bed, arrange myself in a suitably debonair pose and dream of tomorrow's newspapers.