1976

     The seminar was over and the youngsters all burst out into the corridor, rushing to get out and enjoy the brief summer sun. Walking through the tunnel of pamphlets and student-teacher notes, Miltos and his three friends, Jack, Simon and John, chatted excitedly about their band rehearsal.
     Outside, the sun was gleaming gloriously and the sky was clear blue with sparsely gliding clouds. They walked on along the gravel paths, crossing the university campus. The lads soon noticed they were following Jack’s lead that was deviating from the direction of the practice hall. They headed down the hill, towards the woods. After exchanging a few giggly expressions of bewilderment with the others, Miltos said to Jack:
     ‘J man, where are you going?’
     ‘I want to show you guys something awesome,’ Jack replied, continuing to walk.
     ‘So what is it?’ Miltos asked.
     Jack held his words for a moment longer. The boys came to a little grouping of trees on a slope. He turned around and they huddled conspicuously.
     ‘LSD,’ Jack finally said.
     Half an hour later, the boys were camped amongst the trees. Jack and Simon were lying down on the grass. Their feet met like at the centre of a compass and their bodies parted, forming an acute angle. John was resting against a tree, one arm over a raised knee and smoking a cigarette. He waved it before his face, trailing its glow. Miltos was standing and caressing the tree gently with his hands. Their eyes were wide and their faces wild with curiosity.
     With a mild and tender voice Miltos says, ‘I can feel its love. This tree loves.’
     He lit a cigarette with his shiny silver Zippo. Then, giggling whisperingly, he said:
     ‘We are getting a preview of heaven.’
     That evening, as the sun set over the campus, highlighting the peaks of buildings and tree leaves, the lads gathered in the practice hall. They tuned their instruments and mucked about a little. They didn’t speak much. Each was drawn into their own small euphoria, content with their earlier travel, of which the effect was slowly wearing off.
     Miltos stared at his guitar strings with a new fondness. It was almost as if he was rekindling his interest with amazement as to the sounds he would generate with the movement of his fingers. They slowly began to synchronize their rhythms and they soon entered a musical ambiance. Each of the lads looked around for mutual recognition of this new joy as Miltos led them into a renowned rhythm by Pink Floyd.
     As they played, two girls passed from the outside and stopped to peer through the windows. A few minutes later, three more girls and two other lads had joined them. Almost in a trance, the lads hardly noticed that this group of outsiders had moved into the hall, where they sat almost huddled to listen.
     There was a slow build up leading to Miltos suddenly singing into the microphone:
   

     As Miltos went on singing, he noticed one of the girls looking up at him intensely. She was medium in height with short blonde hair and round eyes that sparkled in a brilliant blue as she smiled at him. Enchanted, he smiled back and as the lyrics came to an end, he pulled out his Zippo and began to gently slide it up and down the strings, making a high pitched sound of sadness.
When the group finished, the students clapped and they all began introducing themselves to each other. Some had also taken acid and in identifying a common ground, they were soon discussing LSD and music and other hippy connotations that were the fashion.
     Whilst Miltos chatted with a boy called Jim, the girl he had exchanged smiles with, approached them. Placing a friendly arm around Jim, she looked to Miltos and said with a large smile:
     ‘I’ve never seen anyone do that thing with the lighter. That’s pretty hip.’
     ‘Thanks, it’s actually one of Syd Barrett’s traits.’
     ‘Syd Barrett,’ she asked, ‘from Pink Floyd?’
     ‘Yeah, well, not anymore.’ Someone called out to Jim, ‘yo Jimbo, check this out man.’
     Jim moved further along the room to where the concentration of students was, leaving Miltos and the girl on their own.
     ‘Are you a big fan then?’ She asked. ‘Of Syd Barrett and Floyd?’ Miltos questioned. ‘Oh yeah, they’re legends.’
     She smiled fondly, ‘Maybe you’ll be a star like them, one day.’ ‘I’ll be bigger baby. You watch.’
     ‘Didn’t Syd lose his mind?’ she added. ‘Be careful same thing doesn’t happen to you hey.’
     ‘Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m already crazy. Can’t you tell?’
     They both chuckled shyly.
     She looked deep into his large brown eyes and said, ‘cheeky is what you are. I’m Sally by the way. And what’s your name handsome?’
     ‘I’m Miltos,’ he replied, studying closely the magnificent blue of her eyes.
     In the background, Jim and Jack were mimicking beats and sounds. Jack then shouted out:
     ‘Miltos, you up for hitting the bar dude?’
     Miltos carried on talking with Sally.
     ‘What are you studying?’ He asked her.
     ‘I’m doing philosophy and poetry,’ she replied. ‘What are you studying, music?’
     ‘Yeah,’ he led her into a giggle, ‘you see right through me.’
     Sally looked at the guitar flat on the stage beside where Miltos was leaning and at the rest of the instruments, being picked up by the other lads, whilst they laughed and talked with their new friends.
     ‘Yeah, it was a real brain teaser,’ she said with a luscious smile.
     They both began to laugh out loud. A short whistle with a sarcastic tone rose above their voices as Jack approached them.
     ‘Yoo-hoo, love birds. Can you hear me from up in those clouds?’
     Miltos’s attention turned to him, now chuckling at his comment.
     ‘Sorry man, what did you say?’
     ‘We’re going to the bar guys,’ Jack explained. ‘Are you two up for it?’
     ‘How about it?’ Sally asked Miltos.
     Miltos smiled at Sally and then turned towards Jack.
     ‘Sounds like a great idea,’ he said with a big smile.
     Miltos zipped his guitar up in its cover and hung it over his shoulder. Sally then took him by the hand and pulled, motioning him onwards, to join the others. They all headed out and across the campus path.
     A vivid dark blue had tinted the early evening sky. The trees and buildings in the distance had assumed the form of silhouettes and a few stars were visible. Sally walked beside Miltos. She wore low cut bell-bottom jeans and a white short-sleeved t-shirt.
     ‘So you from here, around Indianapolis?’ Miltos asked.
     ‘No, actually, I’m from New York.’
     ‘So what are you doing all the way out here?’
     ‘I wanted to get away from New York. Go somewhere new. Where are you from? You’re not American are you?’
     ‘No, I’m from Cyprus.’
     ‘Cyprus, where’s
that?’
     Miltos smiled warmly.
     ‘It’s an independent Greek-speaking island in the Mediterranean,’ he continued. ‘In fact, only two years ago there was an invasion by Turkish troops that have occupied a third of the island.’
     Sally’s eyes peered at him with innocence.
     ‘That’s horrible,’ she exclaimed compassionately. ‘How can they get away with that?’
     ‘Well, life is unfair, wouldn’t you say. Anyway, they acted in accordance to authority given to them by a treaty that was formed  by the British, giving guarantor power to Turkey, Greece and the UK and none to Cyprus’s own people. We were literally sold by the Brits.’
     He laughed bitterly. ‘That’s just fucking awful,’ Sally exclaimed.
     ‘So anyway, why did you want to leave New York?’
     She looked at Miltos.
     ‘It’s complicated. It was just me and my mum, since my dad left. She drinks a lot and we don’t really get on.’
     ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Miltos said, smiling sympathetically. ‘If you ever feel the need to talk about it I’d like to hear more.’
     Sally looked to her feet and sighed. She then looked back at Miltos.
     ‘Thanks. You’re so sweet. What about your parents? Are they in Cyprus?’
     ‘Yeah, I guess. I mean, I live with my father and my stepmother. He’s a musician; bit mad and all. My mum left us when I was a child.’
     Sally took Miltos’s hand. A little taken, he turned and looked at her. They gave each other a warm look. Pulling their bodies closer together, they walked like a couple, alongside the rest of the group.

      By the time I got to the UK, following a summer of euphoria in Cyprus and constant harassment by the police, I was psychologically troubled. I had returned to England determined to lash out on all the forbidden fruits of drugs and lust that I could indulge myself with. All the while, whilst in pursuit of a never-ending ultimate psychedelic escape, I remained paranoid of police.
     Although I had been accepted into art school, which seemed at the time to be my forte, I enrolled at Kent University for law. Whilst I didn’t have the grades, I persuaded the dean of the department, with the help of my father, to have a private interview. He took a strong liking to me and I explained with sincerity why my grades were poor in Cyprus, by describing the laid back lifestyle on the island. Appreciating the honesty, he offered me a place in Law and Politics with a condition that I had to pass my law classes in order to continue it as my major. Later, by the end of the year, although I had met the criteria to enter into second year of law, I decided to continue politics. I found it more interesting and well rounded (as it also included law modules) and easier for me to pass with minimal work input.
     At this point, I was in my first year and there had been two reasons as to why I pursued Law. The one was to prove my academic ability to my family, myself and all those in doubt. The second was to become knowledgeable enough to never again be manipulated by legally-empowered authorities. In addition, I wanted to attain the ability of identifying loop holes within the legal system that could, if needed, be used to my advantage at a later time.
     On a visit to the UK, a few months prior, I began to befriend the right contacts and as a result, by July the fourteenth, when I moved back to begin my studies, I already had my sources set for the supply of any drugs I wished for. In fact, the very first night I arrived, after having dinner with family, I called in a favour.
     A guy my friends and I called Bug, came over to pick me up. He drove me back to their student accommodation; a house he shared with three others that I would get to know intimately over the coming years. This was the first night I tried real, substantially potent, acid and not only but whilst candy-flipping. That is, taking ecstasy and acid together.
     That night, after candy-flipping, once all had worn off, the lads and I gathered in the living room and smoked heavily. As opposed to a small joint with a sprinkle of hash or natural cannabis, we were smoking half-a-gram or even one-gram of skunk in single rolls. One followed the other without a pause for the entire night. Unlike in Cyprus, there was no lack of supply here. Amidst the seven lit joints, a bong was being passed around. Never had I seen one that big before. Every time I inhaled the thick smoke that would build and grow dense as fog, within its chamber and along its wide long neck, the hit would blow me away. I was amazed and already hooked, wasting no time in planning the purchase of one for myself.
     Eventually all the lads retired and to everyone’s surprise, I, the youngest and most amateur, was the only one left standing, head to head with Matt, “the bong king.” At one point in the night, he turned to me and said:
     ‘Mate I’m shocked. You’re a monster with the bong. I’ll call you, “the bong prince” because I’m still King.’
     The hours, ongoing, moved closer towards day break. The room was filled with smoke. A point was reached where I could no longer feel my body. With the LSD and pill wearing off, the hours of heavy smoking drowned away the initial high. Things had become delirious and inconsistent.
     Matt babbled on about something or other. Whilst trying to focus on his words, a funny feeling came over me. Staring at him in bewilderment, his tall body, sunk back into an armchair, began to stretch out in the room. His legs and arms lengthened as if taking up most of the space in the sitting area. He went on about gibberish that no longer made any sense to me. I then decide to call it a night and go to bed.
     Suddenly, in a split flash of a second, Matt’s face turned demonic. His lips stretched, like parting a melting mould from two ends, as he spoke in a dark, harsh voice:
     ‘Don’t go yet prince. Stay...’
     I looked at him. A feel of horror arose within me.
     ‘I don’t know man, I’m getting kind of tired,’ I mumbled trying hard not to freak out. Matt then removed the bong from his lips and looked at me casually. His face looked normal again. ‘Sorry dude, what?’ he asked, exhaling a long hit.
     He was calm and seemed oblivious.
     A little confused, I asked, ‘did I say I was going to bed?’
     ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘You okay?’
     ‘Yeah, fine,’ I explained. ‘I was just saying I might go get some kip.’
     ‘Yeah man. Good idea. Can’t believe you’re still up Mike. You’re a monster dude.’
     He laughed hysterically and as he did so, his face began to change into the form of an evil clown. Soon his ears grew pointy and his face morphed with elfish features. The smoke in the room floated like mist and his eyes, a smoker’s glary red, seemed to slowly brighten into a vivid blood colouration that illuminated from within the foggy air. There was a severe darkness about it all. Yet all the while, I knew that it was not him I was seeing and reminded myself that I was tripping out. I smoked some more to try and smoothen it out but it just intensified. So I said goodnight and headed to one of the spare rooms.
     Lying there, I waited for the salvation of sleep. I didn’t feel unsafe but I was exhausted and the last half hour or so had made me quite anxious, although it was easing away in the comfort of the warm bed. Tiredness soon began to take over and sleep was on the frontier.
     As my eyes closed and I drifted away, that same demonic face appeared, triggering a state of consciousness again. My body jumped forth. As I looked about the room, I could hear a faint echo of the words: “don’t go yet prince. Stay...” But the room was empty and the door shut.
     Still dazed, the following morning I headed back to Chilham, the village I stayed in. Bug was kind enough to give me a lift back to a family-owned cottage in which I resided during my freshman year. Seated on the beautiful crème leather interior of this magnificent maroon Volkswagen Beetle, listening to uplifting trance, we swiftly cruised through the narrow lanes of the countryside. It was a fifteen minute drive from Canterbury, the city in which I had just spent the night and was to attend university the following month; a city I was already relatively familiar with.
     Born in Canterbury, I began my schooling there and it was home until the age of eight, when my family returned to Cyprus. As a family, we always kept interests in England and mostly revolving around this city. From property and business assets, to good friends, relatives and of course, one of my two Godfathers. One of my father’s dearest friends, this was a man who contributed greatly to my initial upbringing and built a bond with me, as close in his relationship as any uncle or even some parents can be. Yearly therefore, we would make regular trips to England. After a number of years, my father returned to Kent permanently and so I would continue my trips, visiting him during my vacations.
     University began in late September of that year and so did a new way of life. I was free to do as I pleased and when I pleased. Freedom in itself is a responsibility. Similarly, the use of drugs drink or both can cloud your judgement, which, influenced by intense emotions, can provoke immense vulnerability. Anger, secrets, teenage naivety and misconceptions, only further fuel this ambiguity. As a result, one’s life becomes susceptible to misdirection.
The cottage was situated on the main square of the village. There were little Tudor houses, a few old traditional English tea rooms and a couple of souvenir shops. Directly opposite from where I was, stood a small thirteenth century church and adjacent to it, an old traditional pub.
     Every day began with the amber burn of a large joint containing at least a quarter of a gram. With my living room window open slightly, I would sit on its ledge listening to a morning song, whilst having my coffee. I would then quickly get ready and head out, crossing the square and down the main little street, named The Street, past the small post office and out of the village. From a small platform just outside the village, I would catch a train into Canterbury and then a bus up to university. If it was a warm day I would even perhaps walk through the city, past a little house my mother owned that was being rented out and up a hill that led to the campus. Arriving, I would meet with friends and have a few pints of Guinness before going to class. Once I had been to my classes, if I did go, I’d either meet up with friends and get stoned or head home, to get stoned. I wouldn’t even bother eat until near midnight, once I’d have returned home, after a day of hard smoking and drinking.
     I remember in particular, an afternoon in early October, sitting on the top deck of a bus, leaving campus to head back into Canterbury. The sky was a canvas of splendid mild blue and pink brushstrokes as the sun sunk behind the city, allowing for the evening to settle. The campus was situated on a hill above Canterbury and as the bus drove away, I was enchanted by the majestic view of the historic city below and the protruding steeple of the famous Cathedral, where Thomas Becket’s Tomb lay. Passing through the city, the lights of houses, and street lamps began to decorate what seemed like a painting in motion. My senses were flooded with familiarity and childhood memories began to quickly unfold within my mind. It was a wonderful cosy feeling that I had always carried of Canterbury, since a little boy.
     Unless I was spending the night in town at a friend’s, I would return to Chilham. Doing so always carried a warm and mythical feel to it. It would normally be already evening or late afternoon. Walking up The Street, heading into the village, I was fascinated by the little black and white striped Tudor houses with the gentle glow of yellowy lights. Everything was of a miniature scale and one house in particular had a little old lantern outside with a green light. It was like a goblin house or something out of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. My imagination would run away with me every time I headed home, enthused by the ghouls, witches, trolls and haunted houses that have inspired many great English writers over the years. It was then that I began fantasising about writing fairytales, although I had not yet entertained the idea of becoming a writer.
     At first I attended university regularly. Though as the weeks and months went by, I stopped going to the morning lectures and only attended late morning and afternoon seminars. Although I never studied, nor prepared for my classes, in addition to skipping the lectures, I was still able to engage in debates and was very much liked in class. I had the gift of the gab and I was well mannered. More so, I was able to apply enough logic to the studies I was undertaking so as to participate in class discussions.
     My father had encouraged the idea of spending my first year on campus, yet I had decided to take the opportunity to occupy the vacant cottage. With hindsight, I should have started university like any other normal youngster and enjoyed the innocence of it all. I however, had already experienced the clubbing, sexual engagements and other such associated new-found freedoms that most other seventeen and eighteen year olds, who were fleeing the nest for the first time, would look forward to. Having had lovers, been clubbing and drinking since I entered my early teens, the excitement of it had been worn out. By sixteen, I had even worked in nightclubs that I shouldn’t have been able to attend as a patron. Above it all, my experience in Cyprus the previous January and the harassment that followed in the intervening months since, had robbed me of my innocence. I now had a different agenda and therefore, wanted absolute privacy. So I spent my first year residing in this little village, Chilham.