Drowning by Numbers

Seething Wells Halls of Residence, Kingston University, 2001.

“I bet,” Will said thoughtfully, “that I could set your smoke alarm off using a Jedi mind trick.”

“It’s two in the morning,” I countered. “And none of you are meant to be here…so it’s a good thing I don’t believe in Jedis.”

It had been surprisingly easy sneaking the band in really. My halls had a strict policy regarding guests – one at a time, for a maximum of two nights – but once you got past the security guards at the front gate of the complex, everyone just assumed you were meant to be there and left you to it. Will, Cunt Girl and Mike had rolled in at around midnight after playing a gig in central, and had filled my tiny flat with guitars, amps and, somehow, more trainers than they had feet.

Will waved his hand confidently under the smoke alarm. Sure enough, it went off.

“SEE?” He yelled. “I’M A JEDI!”

“NO YOU’RE NOT!” I shouted back. “YOU’RE JUST HOLDING A FUCKING CIGARETTE!”

I clamped my hands over my ears and tried desperately to think. We were all pretty drunk by this point, and everything seemed to be swaying in time with the wailing alarm.

“I HAVE TO GO TO THE ASSEMBLY POINT OUTSIDE,” I explained, gesticulating wildly. “HIDE!”

I grabbed my coat and ran out of the flat. I shouldn’t have hurried; the fire engines hadn’t even turned up yet, and everyone else was trickling out slowly, wrapped in duvets and dressing gowns and looking incredibly sorry for themselves.

There were, in total, 60 people that needed to be accounted for.

I was the only one fully dressed.

By the time the fire engines ground to a halt beside us, I think I was about 30 seconds away from being lynched.

“Right everyone,” one of our security guards called out. “You know the drill. The system says the alarm originated in N4E. Who’s in N4E?”

I raised my hand sheepishly.

“We have to search your flat before we can give the all-clear.”

I nodded, dumbstruck, and watched six firemen and two security guards head into the block.

Five minutes later the alarm died, and six firemen, two security guards and a very confused-looking Mike filed back out of the building.

The duvet and dressing gown zombies piled back inside. What I presumed was the head-fireman strode over to me, pulling Mike along by his elbow.

“This,” head-fireman said, “was under your bed. He seemed to be under the impression that if he couldn’t see us, we couldn’t see him.”

I searched Mike’s face, trying to gauge the situation. Where were Will and Cunt Girl? Had they jumped out of my bedroom window? I was only on the first floor, so it seemed plausible.

Head-fireman sighed. “Right, both of you come back inside.”

He nodded to one of his subordinates, and the two of them escorted Mike and I back to my room. They sat us down on my bed, and proceeded to give us an extensive lecture on fire safety, drinking, drugs and chip pans.

I just couldn’t work it out. Between the four of us – me, Mike, head-fireman and lackey-fireman – the room was uncomfortably full. I tried to look attentive, but kept stealing glances around the room. There were four pairs of men’s trainers strewn across the floor. I tried not to focus on them in case one of the uniforms followed my gaze. Where the fuck were the other two?

Finally, head-fireman rounded off his speech with a stern warning regarding what would happen if he ever had to talk to me again, and announced that they would let themselves out.

The door clicked shut behind them. I listened to their footsteps fade away down the corridor, and then breathed out for what felt like the first time in 20 minutes.

Then, Will and Cunt Girl fell out of the wardrobe.

“It was so hot in there,” Cunt Girl announced, “that we thought there was an actual fire.”

“So after they caught Mike,” Will chimed in, “I snuck out and saved the vodka, just in case. Told you I’m a Jedi.”

He handed me the very last of our Smirnoff. I gulped it back neat, and lit another cigarette.