By the time I took to the stage at the Rhythm Factory, a tremendous thunderstorm had erupted, cracks of lightning flashing through the window – the perfect accompaniment to our first headline set.
Through the magenta haze of strobes, sweat and cigarette smoke, I felt the glare of a lanky waif by the bar. Finishing the show in a howl of squealing feedback, I crowdsurfed over to where he was standing. He had a cherubic face, looking very beautiful in his red fusiliers’ jacket, ripped jeans and brogues. In a soft, whimsical voice, he introduced himself as ‘Peter Doherty’, and complimented the gig and my Victorian corset. ‘I’m going to call you Katie Corset. What are you doing now? Would you like to join me at the Albion Rooms?’ Not knowing what he meant, and thinking it was some trendy new club, I wrinkled my nose. He fixed me with a doe-eyed look. ‘It’s where I live in Bethnal Green… we can have an afterparty.’
Following a magical rain-soaked snog in the middle of a street made famous by Jack the Ripper, we flagged down a taxi, stopping off for the essentials – fags and booze – along the way.
Pete’s digs didn’t disappoint my bohemian expectations, with piles of my favourite books on the floor. I picked up a dog-eared copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray and skimmed through the heavily underlined pages until a square of heroin-stained tinfoil, used as a bookmark, abruptly fell out, causing Pete and me to collapse in a fit of giggles. He then informed me that he’d acquired some opium from a Lebanese bloke in Brick Lane, along with a 19th-century Chinese pipe to smoke it with.
When in Albion, I told myself. After the obligatory puke that comes from smoking opiates, Pete and I lay sprawled across the floor, Billie Holiday providing the soundtrack, as I quizzed his knowledge on the Pre-Raphaelites. High as a kite, I believed I had met my soulmate that night – the Rossetti to my Lizzie Siddal – and told him so, to which he declared feeling the same.
During the first six months, we forged a deep bond, writing each other poetry and staying up all night talking. We would hang out a lot at my flat, which Pete renamed the Elysian Fields. On my hot pink wall he spray-painted ‘The Libertines’ in gold, surrounded by a heart, along with ‘Katie is a sweet, sweet girl’ above my bed. We shared the same sense of humour, talent for mimicry and desire for approval. There was The Libertines’ first performance on Later with Jools Holland, which he asked me to attend ‘in all your fishnet finery’; the nights spent dancing to Mouldy Peaches at Trash, whizzing around Camden on his moped and watching the sun come up on Parliament Hill as we came down from ecstasy.
But while I lived for the music – Pete often mocked how seriously I took it – I noticed a shift in his personality around the recording of The Libertines’ debut album. Although we both dabbled, neither of us had a drug addiction when we first met. Pete, however, did not adjust well to fame; he remedied this with the smoking of copious amounts of crack.
Pete would carelessly give out private details on Libertines online forums, including his and my address, enticing his fans to turn up, demanding to see him. On one such occasion, Pete passed out in my bed after a four-day bender. He hid my keys somewhere on his person and would not wake up.
