The Raver

Peter read his invite letter again:

Dear Peter

We would like to invite you to participate in our latest research:

"An investigation into the effects of post-traumatic stress on the formation of personality disorders."

Peter laughed.

He had received so many invites like this.

But then that was how it was when you were the sole survivor of your generation's greatest massacre. You were a celebrity. Everybody wanted a piece of you. Especially shrinks – he was like catnip to shrinks.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror next to the front door. He was forty years old and definitely getting better with age. He thought about that picture from twenty years ago. The one that had been on the front page of all the papers. The picture of him, half naked, wrapped in a sheet of foil outside the old barn where the massacre had happened. The picture that made a nation, possibly the world, fall in love with him.

He had looked so vulnerable. Innocent. Scared. Beautiful.

In truth - he had been completely off his tits.

He had spent the night of the massacre in a giant plastic orb rolling around dancing. Out of his God damned mind. He wasn’t even aware that anything had happened.

He had been pulled out of the orb by a policeman long after everyone was already dead. The only memory he really had was the sickly-sweet smell of cooked flesh mixed with burnt hair.

Mass electrocution had been the cause of the massacre.

The barn had a metal frame, sheeted floor and corrugated metal sides and roof. Once the three-phase power faulted nobody inside stood a chance. Those that weren't electrocuted immediately got caught in the run for the doors, many slipping on the wet floor or holding on to somebody else. The barn was essentially one giant electrified incinerator.

Peter, however, had been in his bubble, away with the fairies.

Sometimes Peter had his suspicions that the shrink invites were really nothing to do with understanding his mental state at all. People just wanted to say that they had met him.

Peter could appreciate why.

He was quite the enigma.

Beautiful, charismatic, and funny with the highly documented bad boy back story that he must be a psycho or a sociopath or some such thing.

That stuff ran deep.

Girls loved that shit.

The kudos of being the sole survivor extended to every area of his life.

He often got paid just to turn up places and hang out.

And when he turned up at a rave... well sod the DJ, his presence alone could blow the bloody roof off.

Peter smiled at himself. Of course... it helped that he was gorgeous.

He grabbed his Porsche keys and headed down to the basement to get his car.

He checked his bank account on the way down to ensure his fee had been paid. He did nothing for free these days. If a psych wanted a piece of him then they were going to pay for it like everyone else.

The money had been deposited.

He got into his Porsche and drove the couple of miles to the hotel.

It was one of those places that had once been the house of some aristocrat. Rolling lawns. Long shingle driveway. A peacock.

Peter pulled up and smiled. He would order some lunch when he got in there. On their account of course. This Doc could clearly afford to buy him lunch.

He walked into the reception area.

There was a young girl at the desk. Blonde. Curvy. Pretending not to have seen him.

He stared at her.

She looked up at him.

He held onto her gaze for a few seconds longer than he should have.

He knew she wanted him.

Maybe, after this, she could have what she wanted.

"Hi," he said, "I have the Anderson suite booked".

"Yes sir," she replied. "Are you here with Dr Wolf?"

There was a whole load of hair flicking as she spoke the words.

"Yes." Peter nodded continuing to stare right at her.

"Right."

She knew who he was. He could tell. She was nervous and excited. Just how he liked it.

"Dr Wolf is just through there. I think he is on the phone."

Peter looked at where the blonde was pointing. He could see a short fat, bald man in a tweed jacket flapping about in a sitting room.

"I see him," said Peter. "I will go through and wait in the suite. Just let him know I am here. Oh… also... please can somebody bring me a Caesar salad and a pint of lager."

"Sure."

"He's paying." Peter smiled at her.

She smiled back.

"See you on the other side." He winked.

Pleased with himself Peter walked through to the Anderson suite and made himself comfortable.

Dr Wolf looked just like every other middle aged, middle class psycho-bullshit Doctor. Nerdy, in constant academic overload, with a complete inability to coherently move through the world without an almighty faff going on.

Sometimes Peter thought that he should offer some reverse-psyche to these toffy bunglers. Get a bit of swagger into them.

His pint of lager arrived with his salad. He wrote the words "+ £20 tip" on the receipt and handed it to the waiter smiling.

He was halfway through eating when Dr Wolf walked in.

"Ah Peter, hello," he said as he walked in the room.

Peter, his mouth full, nodded in acknowledgement.

"I am glad you have got some food. Hungry work this psychoanalytical stuff." He chuckled in an amiable way and began to check his jacket pockets.

"Have you lost something?"

"My glasses..."

"They are on your head."

"Ah. So they are. Thank you, Peter."

"Right. Well. I shall let you finish that and then we can begin. Yes?"

"Sure." Peter took a few big glugs of his pint.

"Great. I shall bring that chair over from there I think, and I will set up my audio gear here...." Dr Wolf pottered about, talking to himself.

Peter watched, baffled by how any human could be such a ditherer and be so clever all at the same time.

He drained his pint. Placed the empty glass on the side table next to him and stifled a beery belch. "Right, I am ready."

"Great. Just give me a minute." Dr Wolf tweaked his equipment. "Testing, testing...." he said into the microphone.

Peter watched and as he did, he felt his head drop backwards.

"Whoa."

"Sorry Peter - are you alright?"

"Yeah. No. Whoa." Peter moved his head around a bit to see if he could steady himself. It didn't help he could see trails from the light like he was about to start tripping.

He looked at Dr Wolf. Or at least he tried to. It was difficult trying to hold on to a focus point. Everything was moving.

"What the...." He tried to talk but speech left him.

He looked at his empty pint glass. He had been drugged.

He had not signed up for this.

His hands flopped to his side. His jaw sagged open. His face grew numb. His body became heavier, then inert. The room span.

"Peter." Dr Wolf leaned over him as he said his name. "Peter, can you hear me?"

He heard his name as though it were being whispered through a tunnel.

"Peter. It's ok. I know you can't move but I know you can hear me."

Peter lay still, locked in his body.

"So, you are probably wondering who I am aren't you, Peter?

It's ok.

No need to answer.

You just relax.

I hope you liked your lunch.

I gave it a bit of a kick.

Thought you may appreciate free drugs."

Peter heard Dr Wolf laugh.

Jeees, thought Peter, what was this?

"My name is Jimmy Wolf. You know me. You have known me for a long, long time. Not that you have ever bothered with me. Especially not since you got famous back at the Old Barn Massacre in 2001.

You... you little shit... famous off the back of a massacre!

My Dad had said it about you all the way through school. That Peter Hamlyn he'd say... he is the sort of boy that could fall into a puddle and come out with a fish in his pocket. Honest to God though - dancing through a massacre and coming out a fucking celebrity. That is something else altogether.

You aren't even fucked in the head.

You fucking should be.”

Who the hell was Jimmy Wolf? Did he know a Jimmy Wolf? There had been a James Wolf at school. Was this the same guy? This bald, fat man. Christ if it was, he had really let himself go.

"It was all your fault Peter... the massacre. It was all your fault that it happened."

Oh shit. He was one of those conspiracy nut jobs who thought that because he had walked away he was somehow responsible for the massacre. He had lost count of how often he had told people he had no idea what three-phase power was let alone how to electrify an entire barn.

"I was there that night Peter. The night you survived. You are not the sole survivor. I survived too."

What? In twenty years Peter had never heard of anybody else making it out alive.

"Not so much the celebrity now are you Peter Hamlyn? One survivor is special, there are lists on Wikipedia. They will have to remove your name from them now, won't they?"

Was that it? Was that the whole point of this sodding performance? To tell him he wasn't a celebrity anymore. For goodness’ sake when would these wannabes learn - it takes more than one defining moment to be a celebrity. You must work at that stuff. Invest time and energy. Be a somebody in your own right not just a person who was in a place one time.

"Only problem is I can't tell anybody that I was there that night. Do you know how annoying that is? To watch you parade about in all that glory. The glory I brought to your door."

What?

"Let me tell you a secret Peter - I can't tell anybody that you are not the sole survivor of the 2001 massacre because it was me who killed everyone."

What. The. Fuck.

"Scared now aren't you, Peter?

You were all so fucking pretentious.

Hedonistic shit heads with no thought for anyone or anything.

All you wanted was for everyone to get out of your way whilst you had a good time.

It didn't matter who got hurt. It didn't matter the risk.

The entire town went to that rave. But nobody invited me, did they? Nobody ever fucking thought about me. You were all so into yourselves. Vain, shitty, druggies, the lot of you."

Jimmy Wolf was not dithering now.

“You should have died that day, Peter. Not become a fucking celebrity.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"So, Peter, this is how it is going to go down today. I am going to complete what I started all those years ago. Your glory will be my glory. You will be the person I kill. The victim. I will be the murderer. The celebrity. The one they write about for years to come. I will be front page fucking news. Not you.

Do you hear me Peter Fucking Hamlyn?

Do you hear me?"

Urine tricked down Peter’s leg.