The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [62]
The magic of these words held Samira like a spell, and Norval like a bad dream. This is so wrong, he thought, on so many levels … Noel’s mind was spinning like a blender, crushing and mixing and whipping up fruit-coloured forms. JJ’s last two words, “White Heliotrope,” triggered lines from a poem he associated with his first love. A retinal circus of images, sensations, emotions …
“Colouring?” said Norval, seeing his friend’s fluttering lids. “Noel?”
Noel rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Uh … it’s nothing really …”
“Tell me.”
“Just a … poem. ‘White Heliotrope.’”27
“White Heliotrope? You want to start with that?” said JJ, missing one bus but boarding another. “A smooth customer, that one. A blend of black haw, cramp bark and morning glory seeds. Rolled with wood betony and laced with oil of heliotrope.”
Here JJ opened a salesman’s attaché, with rows of small plastic display cases. “For our second choice, we’ll choose between Northern Laudanum and Absinthe MHGF.”
“Absinthe?” said Norval, sceptically. “I’m afraid to ask what those letters stand for.”
A smile of delight split JJ’s face in half. “Absinthe Makes the Heart Go Fonder.”
“I’m going home,” said Norval.
For Norval, slumped on the sofa with his coat on, things could not have gone more wrong without loss of life. Was JJ a punishment, he wondered, for all the sins he’d committed? “You sure this crap is mind-altering?” he asked, while looking at his watch.
“Judge for yourself,” said JJ. “So what’s our second choice going to be?”
“Why don’t we toss everything into a blender,” said Norval, “pour in a quart of vodka?”
“Why don’t we start with the Heliotrope and move on to the Absinthe—a mix of poppy seed, Monk’s pepper, dog’s mercury and a legal derivative of wormwood. A bit like E—but better for you. And then to top things off, I’ll roll you a bone of my signature strain, the Yelleberry. Shall we start?”
“I’ll pass,” said Samira. “Drugs don’t … I mean, they can make me paranoid, more than I already am. How about you, Noel? Noel?”
“Pass.”
“Are you sure?” said JJ, while rolling three joints the size of toilet paper rolls. “This is primo stuff.The Yelleberry’s so resin-laden we’ll have to roll loose-logs, or else we won’t be able to draw through the goop. It may be best done through this.” From under the sofa, JJ produced a gas mask, circa First World War. “You’ll being seeing things, imagining things you never saw or imagined before.” He lit one with his father’s Zippo and offered it to Noel.
“I hallucinate enough as it is,” said Noel, shaking his head.
“The only side-effect with this first one, for some people at least, is a bit of stuttering,” JJ explained. “But for some reason only on the letter m. And because the paper’s dipped in deglycerinised liquorice, it may change the pitch of your voice. It’s never happened to me, mind you. For me, when I’m ripped on this stuff, I don’t say ‘yes,’ I say ‘yesh.’ And I don’t say ‘no,’ I say ‘noo’.”
Norval, after removing his coat, had fired up a pair of cigars over the fireplace and was about to inhale both through the customised Cartman gas mask. He lifted up the mask. “You say either, ripped or not, and you’re out of the club.”
“I don’t think you should do that much,” JJ warned.
Norval inhaled nearly half of each roll before slumping back onto the sofa, gas mask still over his face.
“Norval?” said Samira, smiling. “Are you all right?” When there was no response, her smile disappeared. “Nor?” Norval groped at his mask but couldn’t get it off. Samira reached over to help, prying it off.
Norval gazed at each member of the club with a spasmodic grin and bloodshot eyes. The heliotrope and wormwood, especially together, were almost immeasurably potent. “I love this club,” he slurred in a highpitched voice. “I love everybody.