Death of a Friend (intimacy)

BlankDeath of a Friend (intimacy)

It was Summer 1998 and today was one of my two art teaching days in the
Hostel. The heat was quite unbearable and I was wandering around the
building reminding certain residents to come to the class. I asked everyone
if they knew where Billy was today? It was rumored that he had gone to his
mother's over the weekend and not come back yet. He had been a dedicated
member of the 'art class' right back to its early days, over four years ago.
He had always been an imaginative being and he was a good artist.

He was a born and bred East London boy. Always up to some scheme, usually it
involved finding or stealing goods and selling it on so he could get some
money for his drugs. He was quite stocky, around forty two years of age and
six foot tall.

His relationship with his mother was uneasy at the best of times. Billy told
me about many arguments and the silly things that they had done to each
other in spite or in casual haste. His mother ran a few brothels in Soho and
Billy used to do repair work in some of them to earn extra cash. I've met
her myself and found her a very beautiful woman, possessing an essence that
can only be uttered as proud. A woman who has had many experiences in
dealing with all types of men and coming out of the other end with a wisdom
that many artists and others shamefully lack. They both had a passion to
live life on their own terms and explore who they really were. I have always
respected such qualities. Baring no culturalized, self conscious trimmings,
dysfunctional and able to explore their identities.

I went upstairs to the top floor of the Hostel and got the coffee machine
ready for the regulars so they could pour themselves a cup. The room was
covered, literally wall to wall, with an abundance of the residents' art
work. I always used to sit down and have a peaceful cigarette, listening to
'Greater London Radio', looking at the treasures created by the people who
had come and gone in my class. So much good work offering many different
visual stories by the souls that had created them. I was proud of the
individuals who dared to let go, treating themselves to the playful,
experience of making art.

Conversations in the class were always rampant and the subject matter was
never boring. The art class was treated as an oasis by the residents and I.
A place where we could say anything without a heavy comeback or an
authoritative crackdown. I encouraged the men to talk about anything they
wanted as long as it did not offend anyone else present in the room. So
there were many conversations by certain residents talking about themselves
being sexually abused. Discussions also included politics, personal issues,
drink and drugs, and of course if we fancied, we could even discuss art. I
used to take them to the most adventurous exhibitions, we'd go & see Fluxus
stuff, Bill Viola and we used to go chalking in the streets, putting our art
on pavements everywhere, and we used to have discussions about the work
we've seen and done.

It was time for me to knock on Billy's door and wake him up just in case he
was still in bed. Even though it was generally thought that he was away for
a few days, I felt that I had better check anyway. My fist thumped on his
door and I shouted out his name a few times, no answer. So I ran downstairs
into the Hostel's main office and got a key for his room. I took the lift to
his room and met Frank another resident who wanted to talk to him about
something and he followed me. Suddenly outside the door I could smell
something horrible, my nose began to itch. There had been complaints about a
bad smell lingering on the 3rd floor of the hostel but no one new its
source.

I slowly opened the door and heard a frantic buzzing sound and then out of
the darkness thousands of flies flew out of the room, many hitting me. I
told Frank to go away, so he left swiftly. I pushed the door open even more,
to see what was inside the room. The curtains were drawn and it was very
dark and the stink was unbearable. I looked downwards at the floor and saw a
dark, shadowy lump of a figure. It was Billy. Strange, all the noise that
usually echoed from outside, from the main street, the traffic, people's
voices receded into the background, disappeared.

The flies had now all exited the room and it was suddenly silent and then my
ears rang a sound, or was it in my head? A loud high pitched sound. My head
felt full of static energy, like it was going to explode and then a migraine
took hold. Time seemed to slow down even though I was there for just a
couple of minutes.

I looked into the darkness at the male figure on the floor and noticed that
his head had caved in. A black treacle like pool of blood was encircling his
head and it had dried up. I could make out, that there were still a few
flies hovering and resting on his head and body. The form of Billy's body
was recognisable yet it seemed completely different. No movement, no jokes,
no observations on art, no energy, no information on secret deals. Nothing
but an unbearable smell and a stillness that tortured me as I looked on.

In that time of finding him, in those small moments before I ran out
informing the office downstairs of what had happened. A kind of realisation
occurred. And yes words are not enough to explain such a thing but I will
try my best. I instinctively did not breath any air during my time in his
room. As I stared at Billy's dead body I began to imagine that he was me. I
began to see me there on the floor, not visually but in my mind. It was as
if my mind had become my eyes for those few brief minutes. It was like a
signal, recognition, a gesture informing me that my life is going to end
sooner or later. Mortality was laid out in front of me and memories of other
very good friends from the past who had died, flashed by. The darkness in
the room seemed to reflect a kind of darkness that was inside me. The
presence of it felt familiar. Like an essence, smell or memory that one
cannot quite place yet know it well.

Weeks later the coroner's report said that he had injected himself in the
groin once to often and a vein exploded causing an instant seizure to the
brain. Because he had been a heroin addict for over twenty years his body
decayed quicker than average due the high sugar levels.

I attended the funeral in a large well known graveyard in the East End of
London. We went by mini bus from the Hostel taking a few of Billy's friends
to say good bye. The service was elegant and Billy's body was taken to the
cemetery in a horse drawn carriage, which is traditional for working class
Eastenders. When everyone had gone and his body was placed in the hole in
the ground. I stood by and watched the gravediggers filling the hole with
earth using a large dumper truck.



marc garrett