Free Ten Storey Love Song by Richard Milward

terrible incident in his childhood: he discovered rock and roll. Ever since he saw the video for ‘I Am the Walrus’ on Top of the Pops 2 aged eight and a half, Little Bobby knew he wanted to dedicate his life to drugs. But it didn’t take long to spiral out of control, sending him into a horrible, vicious world of technicolour, sunshine, and fun. Now he reads Baudelaire’s ‘Intoxication’ every morning when he gets out of bed. He wants it tattooed across his forehead. Sighing again, Bobby’s incredibly tempted to go upstairs for more ticky off Johnnie but stops himself, suddenly put off by his screaming siren mobile phone. His ringtone is a garbled spaghetti of sounds he inputted high on mushrooms one evening, thinking he could hear exotic birds and rainforest animals every playback. He ceases the horridness, answering the phone to Bent Lewis with a paintbrush in his mouth and the word, ‘Eh?’ Bent Lewis: ‘Hello, is that Bobby? This is Lewis from the +! Gallery’ (pronounced with a big camp yelp – ‘PPLLUUSS!’ – which makes Bobby shit himself) ‘in London. How do you do? I think my cousin has been in touch with you, no? She saw a wonderful painting of yours this morning, and I was wondering if you’ve ever thought about representation, or if you’d be interested in showing me some work perhaps? Your stuff sounds ideal for my opening exhibition …’ Bobby the Artist blinks once or twice, not sure if they’ve got the right number. Cousin? Paintings? Wiping his schnozzle, Bobby stares blankly at the wall and says again, ‘Eh?’ Bent Lewis: ‘Oh yes, sorry, well obviously I need to see some paintings! Let’s not jump the gun … Are you busy next week? I’d love to come up and see your studio – your work sounds
so
fantastic. I could make you a lot of money!’ Bobby the Artist sniffs. ‘Well, the flat’s a bit of a state, like,’ he mumbles, glancing at all the candy wrappers and all the druggy wrappers and splodges of acrylic and paintings and the ballerina/sailor/brownie outfits and the sleepy shoes and wormy fag butts. Bent Lewis: ‘Oh, don’t worry, you should’ve seen Francis Bacon’s studio!’ Suddenly becoming more animated, Bobby leap-frogs off the carpet and asks, ‘You knew Francis Bacon?’ Bent Lewis says, ‘Yes,’ although he actually means no. Back in Clerkenwell, Lewis nudges that book 7 Reece Mews along his desk, the one with all the grimy oil-painty photos of Bacon’s hideout. Through the telephone he hears lots of muffled bumping, which is Bobby jumping about the flat with glee. The Artist thinks he’s speaking to some sort of hero or guardian angel. They arrange a date to meet up, Bobby scribing NEXT SATURDAY on the skirting-board with Georgie’s Love That Pink lipstick, just as the girl herself trundles through the door in her Bhs stuff. She squirts her stinky work shoes onto the carpet, finding a space on a sofa arm until Bobby’s off the phone, then she gives him a big hello hug. Bobby the Artist gives her a welcome-back snog on the lips, then bounces on the balls of his feet telling Georgie about the weird man on the phone and the exhibition and the Bacon. He’s got the football-size eyes of a five-year-old, and Georgie starts bouncing too with the excitement of it all and the fact the creaky floorboards are quite fun. She’d forgotten all about Mrs Fletcher harassing her this morning, and she grins two pink crescents all proud of her boyfriend. In a way Bobby feels weird getting so over-the-top about ‘fame’ and ‘money’, but the way the world works you do need pennies in your back pocket, and there’s no way he wants to die with this stupid world not knowing his name. In a torrent of inspiration, Bobby claws for his sable brush and whips jiggedy-jaggedy lemon yellow bits into each of the Angels’ hair, getting put off for a split-second when his tummy has a wee rumble. Bobby the Artist hasn’t eaten for days, his appetite suppressed so much by