Sitting in his apartment that cost 4200 euros per month Pete Doherty was quietly painting with his blood. It was an Airfix model plane. The Fokker of course. Soon this would have models looking at it. Real models. Girls.
He got off his scabby arse and went to the fridge and pulled out a skag baguette. Lately he had been having lots of dreams about newts, salamanders and other amphibians. Xolotls? Axolotls.
The skag start kicking in. Also the butter.
Skag was an ace word for drugs. When you did “skag” you were in “Taxi Driver”. There was film grain everywhere. Every now and then an audible thunk when you switched reels.
Bernard Hermann.
He woke up after the baguette wore off. It was pissing with rain.
Ace.
Put on the grimy mac with the abortion in the pocket.
He descended the spiral staircase in a rock and roll slide-walk. He saluted the silver haired old lady whose head was always stuck out of the door on the second floor as he passed.
She was always there.
Maybe she really was stuck.

It probably wasn’t really an abortion in his pocket. Models talk such shit.

In a café, he saw a sad looking old wanker.

Jarvis Cocker would not admit him to his flat because he was doing yoga.
Charlotte Gainsbourg would not admit him to her flat because actually that maybe wasn’t actually her.
The bass player from Franz Ferdinand would not admit him to his flat for unspecified reasons.
Johnny Depp was in America.
…
That was the good thing about sitting under a bridge. No door.
He pulled out a fag to smoke with the ghost of either Joe Strummer or Albert Camus who sat by his side in shadows, with a w-shaped hairline and a distinct “joie de mort”
There was something slippy in there. In that pocket there.

Pete couldn’t decide whether to hold an exhibit, start a band or take a shit.
He smoked a fag.

What was in that fucking pocket?

Could that be what decided things for him?

He reached in. He felt a head, arms. Slick membranes. Prominent gills.



That didn’t help at all