Tongue Tied — A Short Story

Image source: Daniel Sherman on Unsplash

Content warning: The following short story contains references to drug misuse.

Work karaoke was his idea of hell, to be honest, though Matt strung along for the free bar. He sipped his pint too swiftly as he propped up against a faux marble pillar, watching his colleagues mingle while an analytics guy in Digital massacred I’d Do Anything for Love by Meatloaf. Third beer, already. Gonna be p****d at this rate. Nice view, though. The company had gone large for the anniversary and hired out a Kensington hotel, rooftop venue, windows framing Harrods in the sunset.

Given they were a trendy media conglomerate, there was the odd B-list celeb on the payroll, swanning around the room. Matt’s job was nothing as exciting. He compiled quizzes on the likes of Fleetwood Mac for the radio station website, and often, when he was coming up with multiple choice answers on the origin of Rhiannon, he questioned why his role existed and why anybody paid him to do this task. On the sunnier side, he’d learnt an awful lot about the 1976 recording of Rumours and would probably be shit-hot in the music round of a pub quiz, should anybody invite him.

“Hiya, Matt.”

Lizzie had ambushed him, appearing around the side of the pillar before he could sidle away. She was in a light pink dress. He almost didn’t recognise her without the glasses, and was struck by the revealed angularity of her features. Her eyelids gleamed with an ultramarine eyeshadow.

“Hi Lizzie!” He had to shout over the operatic rock. His breaths became shallow, and he downed the remainder of his pint. “Do you want a drink?” 

“Are you offering?”

“No, it’s a free bar.”

“I know, Matt, it was a joke.”

“Oh!”

He bared his teeth in a silent impression of laughter. Sometimes he left social events massaging an ache in his facial muscles. They moved to the waistcoated bartender, where Matt ordered a white wine and, for himself, a fourth pint.

He had developed a desperate strategy for The Panic. Questions were his number one weapon. Matt flung an interrogation at Lizzie, barely able to register a word as she explained the intricacies of rewriting HR policies, and he nodded as if she’d just stumbled down the mountain with a prophecy fresh from the burning bush.

“Anyway,” she said. “I’m boring you with all my EDI stuff–”

“Oh god, not boring at all.”

“How are things with you?”

He grasped the new pint and took a big swig. People were just too polite. Matt heard himself begin to splutter, “– ah, well, you know, Soul’s hit 200k followers – yeah, yeah, real, uh – achievement, the team’s – um – pumped”, and then he was Lizzie watching him. Matt Hawthorne, corpse, live at the Apollo. Each excruciating pause and wild-eyed search for those greasy words, and f*****g hell, it was hard to keep a conversation going when your brain had morphed you into both participants.

Strangely, his monologue didn’t seem to have put her off. Lizzie, face flushed red in the mood lighting, pointed her wine glass at the stage.

‘Fancy a duet?’

Matt stroked the baggie in his pocket.

‘Nah, I’m gonna do some coke.’

‘You’re going to get a coke?’

‘No, I’m going to do cocaine.’

Her face became very serious. She touched his hand lightly, and his body stiffened.

‘Matt, I’m not being funny, but you’ve got to be careful. A person I knew at uni died from a heroin overdose.’

He nodded, oddly moved by her concern.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve done it a load of times.’

‘Do you think you’re addicted?’

‘No. It’s just, you know, fun. Like your wine.’

She looked baffled, then shook her head.

‘I think I need another wine.’

He smiled at her, as happy-go-lucky as he could muster, then fled to the bathroom.

After, Matt headed back to the bar. He bantered easy football chit-chat with a lad in Commercial as he ordered a Peroni and suavely closed the conversation down before becoming trapped. This, my son, was how you lived.

He clocked Cecilia, Head of Soul, at a cabaret table and thought now was a good time to have that shadowing chat. Right then, he could envisage his stellar career: learn the production ropes on Soul, jump ship to Radio 1, then make the leap to TV. Earn the big bucks, become a man who mattered. Cecilia offered him a glass of Prosecco – ‘nah, I mix the beer and the fizz, Ceel, and I’ll be up there doing Gangnam Style’ – and she actually laughed at his joke. Matt was king of the world.

“Oh dear,” Cecilia murmured “she’s worse for the wear.’

Lizzie was stumbling up the stage steps. The Mancunian compere, vaguely familiar from some comedy quiz show, took her hand.

“Had a couple of VKs, darling?”

“Chardonnay.”

“How many bottles?”

A laugh swept over the crowd. Lizzie slapped him on his breast pocket.

“Don’t be rude.”

Several people took out their phones to record. The compere played for the gallery as he handed Lizzie a microphone.

“What’s your song then?”

“Can I say something first?”

The compere winked at the crowd, “The floor’s yours, babe.”

Lizzie squinted into the stage lights, “I want to say to Matt Hawthorne –”

A nausea cut through the coke high. Cecilia looked at him, amused. Matt kept his eyes rigidly fixed on the stage.

“Don’t let it consume you.”

The compere giggled.

“Okay…! What’s your song, darling?”

“It’s The Drugs Don’t Work by The Verve.”

The melancholy strings filled the bar over a sudden gossipy chatter. Matt’s vision shimmered. Everybody in the room was staring at him. Cameras were recording his reaction. Cecilia’s eyes glowed liquid and amber in the half-light. Matt smiled strangely, gabbled an excuse and escaped into the cold Kensington night.

He got the tube to King’s Cross and boarded the N30 bus, taking a seat on the upper deck. Not for the first time, he wondered who would truly miss him if he just exited stage left. He’d always imagined these feelings came with some dramatic breakdown, a spectacle of despair like the Titanic sinking live at the IMAX-3D, he’d never expected that the loss of will would be quite so mundane.

His attention was dragged back to a crew of East London hipsters, standing in the bus aisle. A middle-aged man in a fedora announced they were – oh, for f**k’s sake, as if things couldn’t get any worse – a poetry collective. A youngish and catwalk-tall girl stepped to the front of the deck: full sphere of tightly coiled afro hair, imperious cheekbones, mischievous smile. The bus lights glimmered on her hoop earrings.

‘Hey N30, I’m Charlie Sunday,’ she said.

Matt suspected Charlie Sunday wasn’t the name written on her passport. He searched his pockets fruitlessly for headphones.

‘I’m gonna perform for you,’ she continued. ‘Can I get a click?’

Life was taking the actual p**s. Charlie Sunday’s posse gave an energetic holler, whooped screeches, and drum rolled their feet. Matt glanced around at the upper deck; apart from those lucky few lost in music, most warily listened. Charlie clicked her fingers slowly, tapping her boot as she found the beat. A group of drunk clubbers clicked with her. Satisfied, she began a strut down the aisle.

            London’s unforgiving

            London’s merciless to its thieves

            And I’m a thief of London

            I’m a thief of London’s dreams

She swayed between the seats as she spoke. A hooded teenager pushed past her to the stairs. “You going now?” she called, “It’s just getting good!”

            Because London dreams in diamond

            Of another city shining

            Sapphire eye sparkling

            On rippled river’s darkness

Slowly, Matt clicked his fingers to the beat. Charlie winked at him as she passed his seat. Matt craned round to watch her.

            Who am I, said I?

            I’m the Prince of Thieves

            London, you should have locked up your dreams!

            I’m a monster, London

            I dance the devil’s dance

An energy swept down the bus as she returned down the aisle. Matt began to click louder, feeling the words and beat gain pace. Back at the front window, against a glow of Dalston kebab shops, Charlie lowered her ochre nails.

            Because there are jewels in Tower Bridge

            Wrapped up like fish and chips

            And any thief wants jewels

The bus rippled with applause. Matt joined in merrily. For a few minutes, the anonymous city had shifted, and the space between him and these strangers had narrowed. Charlie yelled out the name of a spoken word night and threw a cascade of paper flyers down the deck before stampeding with her gang to the lower deck. Matt leaned over the seat and picked up a flyer from the aisle floor.

A week later, he lay on his bed and watched the wind rustle the treetops. Liam lived on the opposite side of the city now. Long gone were the glory days of the mouse-ridden student house share, but there were still trains and buses and, allegedly, free will. Fifteen years of friendship had to mean more than just liking each other’s photos on Facebook. Matt rewrote the text several times before finally sending:

Fancy a pint this weekend? 

His phone buzzed immediately, and it was a pure shiver of joy.

            Can’t this weekend mate, pre-natal classes. But can you come to Ed’s stag in Riga? Gonna be crazy lol

Liam added him to the WhatsApp stag group. Matt wrote ‘Hey lads, massively up for this!’ and an emoji of clinking beer pints. An hour later, nobody had replied. Matt scanned through the names who’d seen the message. Probably screen-shotted, texting each other, laughing. What a w****r. He tried to argue rationally with himself – they all had busy lives, kids, and work – but eventually he had to turn the phone off.

Then he was alone in his box room – supposed to be a temporary fix post-Clare, but it’d morphed into a stupor. Could play Xbox. Finish that series on Netflix. Sometimes he Googled them to find out about their lives.

He picked up his keys to head down to the office and noticed the crumpled flyer. ‘Do you write?’  the top line demanded in bold.

No, no. Not me. Wrong man.

Except whatever he’d done till then hadn’t exactly gone right. Once he had a beer in his hand, he thought: sure, why not, he’d give it a go.

Come Wednesday night, he would have missed the narrow doorway if not for the student-ish queue outside. Matt joined at the end, munching a packet of crisps for dinner, not making eye contact. The pint beforehand had done nothing to settle his nerves. ‘Man up, son, ’ he could hear his Dad say, ‘Grow a pair. ’ At the front of the queue, a fedora-wearing man he recognised from the bus signed Matt up for the first round.

His adrenaline pumped as he descended the rickety staircase. The narrow basement room was painted black and felt madly crowded. There were giant pink p*****s drawn on the toilet doors. At the far end of the room, a lone microphone stood in the stage light. His shoulders tensed off the scale, then he saw her.

Charlie was standing by the bar, holding court with a drink in her hand. She was wearing a sleeveless green dress with a pleated skirt. Same hoop earrings. He couldn’t just stare like a creep. Go on, son – speak!

“Excuse me.”

Charlie stopped mid-sentence. Her friends regarded his interruption coolly. The Panic abruptly began its surge.

“I - uh…” She waited for him to finish. The seconds stretched out. “I came.”

“You sure did,” she said guardedly. “I’m sorry, you are?”

He stuttered his name and reminded her of the bus.

“Cool, man, are you reading?”

Matt could barely hear a word she said. The background chatter had intensified to a deafening pitch. His ears pounded with rushing blood. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “I’ve never –”

A piece of crisp had lodged in his throat. He choked ‘excuse me’ and broke into a hacking cough. Charlie touched him on the upper arm.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

He nodded. Charlie poured a plastic cup of water from the jug at the bar and handed it to him. He gulped, gratefully.

“I’ve never done this before.”

She broke into a smile.

“It’s your first time! Man, that’s great. We’ll cheer you on, won’t we?”

He searched for a reply as the man in the fedora announced Round One. A hush fell over the club, and Charlie turned to watch. Matt slunk to the far end of the bar and quietly ordered a Red Stripe. Cough-free. Perfect hearing.

Charlie took the mic, followed by three other speakers. His mind was clamouring to flee, but he forced himself to remain. Gotta have some kind of pride, at least. This isn’t stupid. You’re not stupid. You’re not going to be laughed at. He felt a trickle of sweat inch down his back. His left leg began to tremble.

The host was saying, ‘The last reader in Round 1…’ Matt was about to die of mortification – ‘First time here tonight…’ People would think he was such a p***k – ‘Please give it up for…’ He wanted to curl up on the ground.

"Matt Hawthorne!"

The crowd shrieked. He pushed through the audience benches, hopping over young people on the floor, and took his place at the mic. Looking out, he could only see the white spotlight. The room fell to a tomblike silence.

“Before I begin,” he said, his paper shaking in his hand. The Panic increased as he heard his own dull tone from the speakers. “I just want to say–”

Matt angled himself towards Charlie’s silhouette.

“Thanks– I mean, um– for inspiring me–”

Her head gave a minute nod. Matt’s sweaty fingertips dropped the paper. He scrambled for it on the floor.

“I– I’m sorry,” he tried again. “I get a bit– nervous–”

A girl with pink hair began clicking her fingers. Get on with it. Of course, he was wasting their time. He glimpsed the scrawled page and felt the room’s contempt. He saw the poem’s emptiness, the cringeworthy stabs at emotion, the mockery the words deserved. The Panic tightened around his neck like a noose.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He pushed his way into the merciful darkness. A purple spot of light was seared onto his retina as he escaped up the rickety stairs. Immediately, Matt entered the Turkish grocery next door and bought six cans of Polish beer for a fiver. Nothing mattered. It didn’t matter. He’d just go home and get drunk and forget.

Charlie was outside the shop. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”, he stated as certainly as he could.

“I really think you should come back down,” she tried to encourage.

“Um, not tonight, thanks.” He nodded goodbye, gave her a false smile, and began a fast pace towards Church Street. Annoyingly, thrillingly, she fell in with his step.

‘You got a spare one of those?”

He handed her a can. “You can have one, if you want.”

“You gonna tell me your poem?”

“No way.”

“Tell me why you came then.”

“You wanna know why I came?”

He poured the tale out. Charlie adored every moment of the karaoke. Matt found himself made into a storyteller. He might have even exaggerated a few parts for laughs.

He found out she was not a full-time poet – ‘as if anybody gets paid for poetry!’ – but was doing a postgraduate degree at UCL, dissecting mosquitos to try and prevent the spread of malaria. Matt nodded, welcoming his feeling of admiration. Be gone, resentment! He told Charlie straight that he wrote quizzes about Fleetwood Mac.

“Rhiannon is a tune, man.”

“Do you think?”

“I know.”

She began humming the chorus as they entered Hackney Downs. A group of kids wheelied bikes in the dusk, evening dog walkers and fluorescent runners zig-zagged through the paths. She knew a pretty great climbing frame, she said, and he agreed, mid-way through his second can, to verify its greatness. At the red pyramid climbing frame in its middle, Matt grabbed the nearest rope.

“I did Media Arts,” he offered.

“You enjoy it?”

“Yeah, yeah – could have studied more. Thought I was gonna be a hotshot exec.”

“It’s all a trap. Get a degree, get into debt, become a manager.”

At the pinnacle, perched on the shorter ropes, they opened the last of the beer cans. Through the London smog above, a few faint stars twinkled blue.

“So,” she said. “Is it time?”

“For what?”

“I wanna hear your poem.”

He gazed out at the park. Spires of the downtown City glowed on the horizon: Walkie-Talkie, Cheesegrater, Scalpel. Jagged point of The Shard. All of us, he supposed, dance in the shadow of the Shard.

“Okay, the poem,” he said.

“Yes!”

His scribbled words were just visible. Matt heard his voice falter in the wind. His breathing was shallow when he’d finished. He drew in a breath, and it felt like the first time he’d filled his lungs. He couldn’t look at Charlie, so he examined the lights on the buildings instead. He blinked a tear into the April breeze.

“I think I needed that,” he said. 

Charlie sipped the dregs from her can and crumpled the aluminium against the frame. She pushed his shoulder.

“Tag”

“What?”

She jumped from the climbing frame. He followed her uncertainly, self-conscious about being seen. Charlie was halfway down the path. He began to run after her, and as he was running he started laughing. It was a well of pleasure that he’d forgotten. He was playing, he was laughing, and, for a time, he was free.