A young, famous band member wakes up in his New York hotel room and discovers his girlfriend bleeding to death in the ensuite. In the months preceding the final trial for her murder, he struggles with his heroin addiction, prison, bail, and his own, incurable guilt, which threatens to consume him.
Ah, the light is so bright it hurts my eyes. I squeeze them shut again, feeling them water. Then I open them slowly, really slowly, taking in the room bit by bit. There’s light filtering out through the hotel curtains, and it’s touching on bits of glass and needles on the floor. The duvet wrapped around my body is covered in something rust-coloured and damp. The smell of something acid and cloying is in my nose.
I need to be sick.
I try and pull myself up. My head feels like a fish-bowl. I’m covered in blood and I’ve no idea where it came from.
I’ve already got my ripped jeans on, and I reach out of the bloodied bed to where I left my clothes, on the floor. The mere experience of being upside-down makes me gag again. I pull on my swastika top and stumble across the room to the ensuite, stepping on bits of broken bottle on the way.
I see only the sink when I open the door. At once I stumble across and vomit copiously in it. The horrific taste is in my throat, my mouth, and some of it comes out my nose. Once I’m done I seize the nearest towel, wipe the lower part of my face with it, and then drop it on the floor.
I stare into the sink as the tapwater washes the remains away. What happened last night? Well, the needles were from the heroin, which me and Nancy were probably injecting, which is what we normally do when we get home before bed…
Nancy! Where’s Nancy? She wasn’t in the bed if I’m not mistaken. I poke my head out the door and call out lamely: “Nancy, I’ve been sick…”
No answer. I move out the door and trip over something on my way out, but I don’t look down to see what it is. “Nancy, where the hell are you?”
I need to be sick again, but not desperately.
Is she out? – I don’t know. I don’t really know what’s happening. Where did the blood come from? Did one of us whack herself round the head with a bottle? Is that why there’s glass on the floor?
These are my final thoughts before I see what – or who – I tripped over when I tried to get out of the ensuite.
Nancy’s lying on the floor, slightly propped up. There’s blood absolutely everywhere, I mean, even more than in the bed. She’s between the toilet and the sink, and her head is leaning against the wall. Her eyes are open – very wide open.
“Never mind,” I squeak, “I’ve found you.”
There’s a faint rattle coming from her throat. I really don’t know what to do, and now I really need to throw up. “Can you hear me?” How do you deal with this kind of thing? What if she can hear me, but she can’t say anything or move? “Nance, don’t worry, I’m going to get help.” I swear her eyes move, but I can’t be sure.
I stand up and check myself in the mirror. Then, heading for the hotel room door, I grab my jacket and my motorcycle boots and stumble out of the room.