Chapter 31 — The Zombie Year

University life was in its mid years for me. I was eternally skint, but always managed some building jobs to keep the proverbial wolves from the door. I was still playing chess and the Inner Circle were doing well, too. The year would have been around 1995, and I would have been 32. I was living on my own at 255, and the rent alone there was killing me, but somehow I managed it. The last of the dogs, Rebel, had gone some months earlier, and not even a cat now remained, and the mice, once banished, returned with abandonment.

It was summer, and the university was closed for a couple of months until September, and this afforded me some crucial time to swell the coffers as best I could. I would undertake as much work as I could, knowing that university time would once again be hard. Although I did try to save as much money as possible from wages, the reality was I either drank or gambled it away before university had even begun, and I knew that by October, I'd be at the Student Union Office trying to access money from the Poor Fund. And this year was no different.

However, one event meant that not only did I not try to extract money from the Student Union, or the bank for that matter, but I actually had money in abundance, even at Christmas, and the reason was not good, either.

I'd been working hard all day, and it had been a typically hot summer's day, and I'd met up in Headingley with a friend and Brian Bewildered, whom I've mentioned before with the mackerel and toast.

I can't remember the pub we went in, and it wasn't the Skyrack, or its opposite drinking den, but one deeper in the heart of Headingley. We'd only had a couple of pints, and no more, before we decided to get a taxi into town, which was only a ten minute ride away or so. The time would have been around 6pm.

The taxi dropped all three of us off outside the Town Hall, and immediately opposite, there was a bar that had just opened. We crossed the road and entered the premises. Loud music was playing, and I went to the bar, while Damian and Brian hung around the middle of the bar, looking around the place, as they, too, had never been in before.

Although I was only at the bar a couple of minutes, when I returned with the beer, an altercation had occurred. One man was shouting his mouth off at Damian, and another bloke was beginning to look menacing. I put the beer down on a shelf and tried to calm the situation down, but the menacing bloke was having none of it and began moving towards me, demanding why I was interfering. I know he had some violent intent in his eye, so I hit him first and he fell. A scuffle immediately broke out, and the bouncers were quick on the fracas, and I was escorted out of the bar, followed by Damian and Brian. To this day I don't really know what had caused such a scene, but it wasn't finished.

By the time we had been exited from the bar and stood a little over a few yards away, a large group of blokes appeared, and it didn't take intelligence to know things were about to turn very serious.

I can remember two blokes standing before me and remonstrating about their mate. My singular focus was on these two, and I was ready to present whatever defence I could muster. I'm not a big bloke and stand at no more than 5 foot 8 and weighed in, at most, at ten and a half stone, but it was afterwards told that the bloke who suddenly appeared from the side of me stood over six foot and sixteen stone.

You don't make it to the second punch when a bloke like that hits you, and neither did I, especially when the big, brave man didn't even have the decency to introduce himself first. He was big enough to do the deed eye to eye, as it were, and not sneak a punch from the side, but he did, and I don't even remember getting hit. This was all told to me some time afterwards.

The heavy punch rendered my senses and consciousness dead almost instantaneously, and so much so that I didn't even bother to put out my arms to cushion the fall as I fell. My back must have hit the concrete first, followed by a smack, as the back of my head quickly followed and hit the concrete.

Three days later, the first recollection was wakening in this very bright ward, a big expansive ward, where the beds were much apart. I can remember seeing this drip stood at the side of me, and then I fell back to sleep again. The next time I woke, the same clinical scene met me. Nothing had changed, and for some reason I had a desire to stand up, which I attempted to do, but the drip was still attached to my arm, and it came down crashing on the floor. Nurses quickly got me back into bed and addressed themselves to the fallen piece of equipment.

After a day or two I was told I'd lost consciousness, and that I was on some Glasgow Coma Scale, whatever that meant, and I'd take some time to recover. I had a tremendous ringing in my skull, and I could hear nothing but this in my left ear. That was all I can remember from that ward, except when they took you for a bath and placed you in this huge body of a bath and the hot water was nice.

Weeks later, I was told I'd lost complete hearing in my left ear, and had lost the sense of smell, too, along with the majority of taste sensation – oh, and a tooth, too, which must have made its way out of my head with the impact of the punch.

The next three months or so to Christmas were zombied, and although I knew I had to carry on going to university, all I did was to go to whatever tutorials and lectures I had to, and then would set off home. If I had time in between a lecture and a tutorial, I would head for the Parkinson Library and down into the bibliographic basement, which was invariably almost deserted, where I would find a place to sleep.

Sleep was the only sweetness which attracted me during those dark autumnal months. After leaving hospital, I would sleep for nearly the whole of the day, and all the night, too. As the months progressed, I'd sleep less and less, but each time I lay down, that was always the sweetest time.

I think my personal hygiene suffered during this time, too, and 255 returned once again to a veritable nest of vagrancy. I threw out the old bed, which I'd almost lived in for the past couple of months, and decided to sleep on two quilts on the floor. The house was a true tip, but I didn't care.

During this time the only other time I ventured out of the house was to play chess, and that annoyed me, but I did it. I always came home afterwards, though, and declined any invitation to stay and have a drink as had been customary. I had no desire whatsoever to socialise, and don't get me wrong, I wasn’t melancholy at all, but simply devoid, emptied of any will to do anything whatsoever that wasn't necessary. A true zombie at 32.

***

Christmas arrived, and I remember being invited next door for a Christmas drink, which I accepted out of politeness, but left after ten minutes and headed back to the pit. On Boxing Day, though, things changed with the arrival of an old acquaintance.

Yea Yea Chris we used to call him, as he continually uttered, 'Yea, yea,’ to everything you said. He was an innocent fellow and would always help you out if he could, and I liked his quirky character. Most of the others simply tolerated him, I think.

'Hi, Karl,' he shouted, as he almost jumped in the door. 'I'm off to the singles bar in Pontefract. Do you want to come along?'

I tried to make excuses, but the obstinate fellow was having none of it, and finally, he persuaded me to get a bath and put on some clean clothes.

I hadn't had a drink for some three months, and it took only a couple of beers before the zombie in me began to drift off and disappear, and I began to enjoy the world of the living. The night was great, and I pulled, too; a dark-haired bird, a bit older than myself, but who gave a damn: not me.

I haven't spoken to Yea Yea Chris for some years now, and I hope the man is doing well, and I thank him for that Boxing Night at Christmas many years ago and his good deed.