Pete Doherty: Man Out of Time

Photo by Hedi Slimane

Doherty will continue to make the papers on a daily basis throughout December. Charges are filed against him for allegedly hitting a photographer; he is wanted for further questioning regarding the December 2006 death of a man who fell from the window of an apartment during a party Doherty attended; and he is increasingly linked with Amy Winehouse, paying 4 A.M. visits to the singer while her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, is in custody, accused of witness tampering in his own assault case.

Back in November, Doherty had told me that he and Winehouse had become friends and were hoping to record a song together soon: "When I first moved to Marlborough, she and Blake would come down a lot. We'd have a few drinkies and crisps and have a bit of a singsong. She had me in fucking [tears] when I'd just split with my missus, singing at me with this amazing voice of hers."

Now, in the car, when he lifts his lids again, I ask whether the latest newspaper reports are true, that he is helping her through her own drug problems. He snorts with derisive laughter.

"I'm helping Amy with rehab? Is that supposed to be sarcastic? Anyway, look, I can't talk about her; it wouldn't be fair." His head lolls forward. He is moments away from unconsciousness. "You've got to understand...these days I just can't afford to get involved [with the press]. People -- they turn on you... on me. They write horrible things, deliberately twisting my words." For a fleeting second, he looks up, helpless and lost. "I know you are not here to shaft me, but..."

And he's out. I fail to rouse him when we reach the train station, so we return to the house without his "friends," and I leave him passed out in the car. Later, his tour manager and bandmates attempt to shake him awake. They have a one-off gig tonight in London and must leave immediately. He staggers into the house just as the people we were supposed to meet at the train station show up, on foot, soaking wet and angry. He smiles benignly at them and sings a line from a 1980s British TV commercial ("If you like a lot of chocolate on your biscuit, join our club"). He disappears into one room, and then another. One by one, his bandmates and assorted friends and hangers-on each exchange complicit looks, grit their teeth, and sigh heavily. It's Pete being Pete, they seem to be saying to one another, Doherty still convinced his raffish charm won't run out. En route to the show this evening, he will go missing, the band having to perform without him. A few days after I leave Albion Towers, it's reported that Doherty was beaten up by local dealers for not buying drugs from them.

In Manchester three weeks earlier, he had told me that he was desperate to be free from drugs once and for all, as much a show of faith to friends and family as to himself.

"I mean it, I do," he said. "But it's really hard."

Harder even than he thinks.