Blacked out

...Kurt feeds me a double Jack to convince me to be his wingman and I spend what seems like twenty minutes trying but failing to chat up the tarty-looking twin of a tarty-looking blonde in a short silver skirt that sparkles in the lights pulsing blues and reds and whites but it turns out it’s a mirror the whole time.

…later explains that I made for an entertaining and effective ice-breaker babbling incoherently at a wall.

…wondered why he was interested in the ugly one…

~-~-~

…can only see in black and white as I look at me very much not myself in the mirror and my face divided by shadow is a two dimensional ink silhouette on paper when it gushes grey at my reflection fizzing from my mouth while my stomach ties in knots.

…tiny icebergs float on froth on the glass shelf past HMS toothbrush towards the soap cliffs.

…shocked and disgusted at myself as I pick them up and swallow them again.

…waste not want not…

~-~-~

…sandpaper scratches down my windpipe and splits breaking into bronchial fractals lighting up my lungs.

…it burns at my soul.

…it’s what breathing was made for…

~-~-~

…Saul rides his metal steed with Viking fervour, he bellows, he laughs, he shakes his fist at the gods, he takes on the world and now I am aboard, clinging onto this cage while its wheels chatter maniacally beneath us.

…Kurt and Phil, clattering to our right, judder wildly, pirouette slowly, lose control, tumble, turn over, Kurt emptying out across tarmac while Phil spreads across their stolen ride.

…watching them, not where we’re going, we hit kerb and are catapulted across pavement into bushes.

…laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing…

~-~-~

…ill-conceived opinions and bad jokes and meandering stories and clever jokes and poor impressions and raucous jokes and heated arguments and sincere apologies and protracted explanations and emotional agreements.

…and jokes, they swirl colours around us, drawing lines connecting us, winding round us, passing back and forth between us.

…every problem is solved, everyone is alright, every face is smiles, every soul is aglow, everything is forgotten…

~-~-~

…watch the distant echoing screams of stars millions of years gone past drown out in the choral majesty of dawn.

…watch the blacks bleed out through greys.

…watch the blues as they warm the sickly pallor of corpse skin to a rich royal sea.

…watch clouds play out their anthropomorphic theatre.

~-~-~

“Are you alright?” a soft Welsh accent asks me.

A black cut-out, the shape of a woman with her hands in her pockets, prints onto the sky.

I blink. Squeeze my eyes tight shut 'til colours burst against the inside of my eyelids, and open them to squint up at this person breaking my reverie.

“Mmm?”

“Are you alright? You weren’t moving.”

“Yhhhhmmffnn,” I clear my throat, swallow, and try again. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I flex my limbs lightly against the grass, shuffle a little, settle myself again and I smile warmly. “Just, you know, relaxing for a minute. Enjoying the sun. Why?”

“Sorry,” she says as her shadow falls across my eyes and I can see her clearly, her sharp features and angular frame, her green eyes glittering behind glass. “Just, you know, you hadn’t moved or anything since I’ve been here and I’ve been here an hour now.”

I don’t say anything; I’m just looking up at her, looking in her eyes. Blinking slowly. Comprehending what she’s just told me. I shuffle up onto my elbows and look around.

I’m in the botanical gardens.

“An hour?”

“Yeah. Nearly.”

A few people are dotted around. Some of them are eating sandwiches.

“Is it lunchtime?”

“How long have you been lying there?” she says looking down at me and my dishevelled clothes; looking down on me, with a slight smile.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I tell her. “What day is it?”

She laughs.

She helps me up and even steadies me when I wobble. We walk together down the slope and out the gates, down Thompson Road and cross Ecclesall at the lights, which change in our favour as we reach them.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she says.

I hadn’t realised I was. My hands had acted with a will of their own, had found a packet I didn’t know I had, had found a lighter, had acted in cahoots with my mouth, and I was smoking. I held it out in front of me, watched it burn. I looked down at the empty pack still in my hand.

“Ooops.”

She pinches it from between my fingers and takes a long drag, holds it.

“Aaah…” she sighs out smoke. “Don’t worry, I shouldn’t either.”

We share it as we walk along Ecclesall. We turn left at Nonnas café, leaving the bustle of the main street behind us, still passing it back and forth. Left again onto Sharrow Vale Road, it’s burned down to the filter and we stand outside her work.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Ray,” I say. “Call me Ray. What’s yours?”

She tells me.

But I won’t remember.

Easter weekend

Good Friday. It doesn't seem so good. And really, it means very little to somebody brought up outside mainstream religion. However, it brings a four day weekend with it.

But it seems like I must be the only one that doesn't feel like celebrating that fact. Four days with no plans is far too much time for introspection and wallowing in self pity. At least work, mind-numbing as it is, would keep me occupied and my thoughts away from her.

We were due to go away together this weekend. Tickets had been booked and hotel rooms reserved. Nothing much, just a simple trip to the coast, a quick getaway, with its promises of sunset walks along the beach, of paddling in rock pools, of candy floss and sticks of rock, of sleeping late and staying in bed, our naked bodies intertwined.

It's depressing. A reminder of what was, what could have been and now, what never will.

And I miss her.

So I resolve to spend my weekend questing for oblivion. I call Kurt and arrange to meet up with him. Him, and his bandmates, and their assorted hangers-on. Some of the wild kids of Sheffield. Still in their teens or early twenties. People that seem instinctively to know the hot spots, the late night parties, the drug peddlers.

Mid-afternoon, I meet Kurt in the Palm Tree Inn in Walkley, round the back, in the beer garden, in the sunshine, where they can all smoke. I try to ignore it but every single cigarette looks mighty tasty to me.

Kurt stands, fag hanging from his lips, and takes my hand in a firm handshake before introducing me to everyone in a barrage of names that I know I haven't a hope of remembering. A few of them are familiar, including Richard, Sara's fella, and a scrawny bloke with a large nose called Marcus, both of whom I've met before on several occasions. The others I will have to get by with calling them 'dude' or 'mate' and I hope they won't mind.

We drink, we talk, we laugh. Eventually we raise our hands in salute, clutching fistfuls of pharmaceuticals, and we say goodbye to all rational thought.

I dive off the deep end and I hope I shan't resurface 'til this terrible holiday is over.

Another morning, another couch

I wake up to the familiar sizzling sound of frying. My head pounds and my stomach gurgles. I almost drown on my own saliva. I struggle upright, my spine cracking at every move. I have a terrible crick in my neck that I try to cure by twisting my head in the other direction but succeed only in making it hurt on the opposite side.

I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. Annie is there in a fluffy pink dressing gown and matching fluffy pink slippers. She has a pan on the hob and a wooden spatula in her hand.

“Good morning, sunshine!” she says.

“Morning," I rub the sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?” I croak.

“Almost half seven. I was gonna let you have a lie-in. But I need you out. I’ve about seven hours ‘til the full moon and I’ve got so much to get done before then,” she says. “Including getting your manimal stink out of that blanket,” she adds, waving her spatula at the blanket wrapped around me.

“That’s fine. I’ve gotta go to work in a couple of hours and I should really shave and change my clothes first.”

“Breakfast first!” she declares. “Bacon and scrambled egg and toast!”

Behind her the toaster regurgitates bread, now transformed, crisped and burned black, back to the world.

“No beans though. All gone. Laurel loves beans. Don't you, hun?"

Laurel remains silent and glares at me from her chair in the corner.

"Morning, Laurel," I say but elicit no response.

"Ignore her," says Annie. "She's in a mood." She dishes out a couple of rashers of crispy bacon and a large spoonful of eggs onto a plate and hands it to me. "Enjoy!"

Fed and happy, with a large, new crystal sitting in my jacket pocket, I strike out into the grey and dreary Thursday waiting for me outside.

In the middle of the night

During the night, I stir. Or rather something stirs me - a touch on my chest…. cool… skin on skin… - and I open my eyes.

Annie's living room is dark but for the moonlight from above and the orange sodium glow of the city from below, filtered through tie-dyed curtains. I lay on the sofa, blanket draped over, covering me from my belly to my feet.

Annie stands over me. Completely naked. What little light seeps through the drapes glistens on the edges of her gentle curves. In her hand she holds a glass of water. She looks down at me thoughtfully.

"Annie…?" I say sluggishy, still half asleep.

"You don't have to talk to me about it, Pynch," she says quietly but seriously, in a voice softer than silk.

She bends forward and reaches down to me. I am very aware that, beneath the blanket Annie has leant me, I am quite naked, save for a pair of grey jockey shorts. I try to keep my eyes reined in, focused on Annie's, and not roaming freely across her body.

She traces a fingertip across the raised lines on my chest. No longer red, at least not in this light, and healing slowly. Her touch tickles but I don't laugh.

"You don't have to talk about it," she says again. "But you should have mentioned it."

"Sorry…" I mumble. "Do you know what they are?" I ask.

She shakes her head slowly, sadly. "No," she says. "But it looks familiar." She stands again, a concerned frown painted across her delicate features. She gives me a small smile and tells me to go back to sleep. She pads from the room and sleep quickly takes me back.

Lil Annie - Part 4

After ten minutes I find myself idly flicking through an old copy of Heat magazine.

After twenty the wine bottle is almost entirely empty. I squint down at the magazine. The text is blurry. Something about a Lindsey Lohan.

Potent. Annie told me so.

After forty minutes she’s done and she starts talking to me again and I’m already slumped across the sofa. She berates me for drinking all the wine and I smile up at her but have trouble organising words into a coherent sentence.

She walks a circle around the room, turning on a couple of lamps, extinguishing the candles. Then she goes and gets another bottle, and refills her glass.

She doesn’t share it. Quite right.

She sits next to me on the sofa, knees tucked up in front of her. She’s bright, like a supernova burns inside her, a golden shimmer surrounds her, emanates from her, and her eyes sparkle.

She’s often like this afterwards.

We talk rubbish to each other for a while. We laugh at each other’s jokes. She holds my hand, gives it a squeeze. Like old friends. Like past lovers.

Just talking.

And then she asks me about her.

I ask her to drop it.

She does, but the atmosphere has changed. The glimmer has gone.

I apologise and she nods. Then frowns and shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve asked. I’m sorry. I just… If there’s anything I can do to help… please… let me know.”

I tell her I will. And have to assure her twice.

“Do you want to have sex?” she asks, quite matter-of-factly.

I laugh. Honestly, I forget how open Annie is. Polyamory does not even begin to cover it. She often shares herself physically with those she loves, simply as an extension of that love. It was something I couldn’t deal with when we met… when we grew to be friends… when we grew to be more… I was too monogamous to handle it. I wanted it all or I wanted nothing. I blame society.

The sex was amazing though.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “But it really wouldn’t help.” An expression that could almost be mistaken for disappointment flickers across her face and is gone.

I ask about Laurel and she becomes bright again.

“I love her so much,” she tells me, “that sometimes I feel like my heart could explode.”

She tells me every little detail. She's never been happier than since Laurel entered her life and she gets up and whirls around the room, her enthusiasm spinning her like a top.

I don't mind. It makes me smile to watch her, beautiful little Annie, chattering away, her beaming smile lighting up the room like the sunrise come early.

She even shares some more of her wine with me.

Lil Annie - Part 3

Annie starts by the small television in the corner of the room, using the lighter to add flame to a half-used candle sat by the side of the telly. Then she crosses to the opposite corner, to a bookcase so jammed with books that the wood has given up and the whole structure leans drunkenly, only the books themselves hold the case up and together. Melted to the edge of the third shelf down is another candle. She lights it and circles anti-clockwise around the room to the window where she lights another. She comes over to the small side table next to the end of the couch and picks up a candle that's toppled over. She waves the lighter under the end of candle to soften the wax, then she plants it firmly on the table and lights it. Then back to the window where she lights two more. She walks clockwise once round the room ending up back next to the television where she pauses.

"Shit," she mutters. She looks at me and whispers, "Can you just toss me a candle? There should be a box of them in the drawer." She points at the end table.

"I thought you said I couldn't move?" I whisper back.

"Don't be a smartarse," she says. "Do you want this done or not?"

I shut my mouth and grab a candle from the drawer, toss it over to her. She lights it and plants it on the other side of the telly before releasing the trigger on the lighter and letting the flame finally die, its children twinkling from around the room.

Annie steps to the centre and sits cross-legged in front of the gathered materials. She picks up one of the bottles, a small one with a red oil inside, and pulls the stopper. She lets a few drops fall into the bowl. She selects a tall bottle with a transparent green liquid inside and she pours a generous amount. She picks up the bag of leaves and opens it, takes a pinch from within and crumbles it in. Another bottle, this one bulbous, with a long neck. Inside, another liquid, viscous and dark. Another bottle, short and stout. Another liquid, bright and quick. And then she takes the dry stems in both hands and breaks them over the top. She folds the pieces over and breaks them again. And finally she takes up the lighter, clicks it to life once more, and touches it to the mixture.

I flinch away. The blaze is momentarily brighter than the sun but leaves no retinal afterglow, as though it never happened.

I look back to Annie, her eyes closed, her hands resting lightly on her knees. Her lips move silently, her eyes flicker behind their lids. In front of her burns an invisible fire that shivers the air, twists it, a heat haze ripple hovering over the bowl. Around the room, the candles genuflect to Annie.

I drink wine and watch.

Lil Annie - Part 2

Annie kneels on the rug, sits back on her heels, and listens intently while I tell her what I need. She swirls the brown-tinted liquid in her glass, breathes it in. She does not take her eyes off me. She looks me in the eye, face frozen, expressionless, and does not blink. She sips her wine thoughtfully.

"Alright," she says and rocks backwards up onto her feet in one smooth motion. She crosses the room to a small pirates’ treasure chest, flips the latch and lifts the lid, starts rummaging inside with one hand, the other still holding her glass. "Only cos it's you. You're a big boy. Grown up enough to know what you're doing. Anybody else asked me I'd tell them to piss off."

"I can't tell you how much that means to me. To be patronised by someone so wise… so young…" I say with a smirk.

Annie stops dead and glares at me, points at me with the hand holding her glass. "Or you can just piss off anyway?"

I apologise and, with a sniff, she goes back to hunting through the contents of the chest. Eventually she finds what she's looking for and produces a small metal bowl, which she places on the floor next to her. I watch her get up and walk over to a shoe box on her sideboard which she opens and takes out several dried plant stems and a plastic bag filled with shredded leaves.

"Back in a minute," she says and puts her glass down on the sideboard before vanishing off to the kitchen again. I wait patiently, pour myself some more of Annie's homemade spiced tea wine, and settle back on the sofa. I watch the multi-coloured wind chimes spinning in her window in the fading light of early evening.

She comes back in with a selection of bottles, various shapes, sizes and coloured liquids. She gathers everything together in the middle of the room, pushing the stack of books, magazines and papers off to the side, and arranges them in front of her, spread out in a semi-circle around the bowl. "Do you like the wine?" she asks while shuffling the items around.

"It's very pleasant," I tell her and she smiles modestly.

“It’s quite potent too. Go steady.”

I snort.

“Seriously, Pynch. I know you. Drink it slow.” She darts back into the kitchen and returns with a long wand lighter. "Right," she says and waves the point of the lighter at me like the conductor of an orchestra. "You have to shut up and stay very still for a minute."

I mime locking my lips closed and I throw away the key.

She holds the lighter between her teeth while she grabs handfuls of her wild, dark hair and bunches it together, tying it back. Then she takes the lighter in hand again, clicks it again and again 'til eventually the spark becomes a flame. She takes a deep breath… slowly… in… then out.

Lil Annie - Part 1

Annie lives on the top floor of the Adamfield block of flats, the closest of four towers next to the Brook Hill roundabout, sitting highest on the hill, looking out over the ring road and the city centre.

I barely have to wait after jabbing her number into the intercom before Annie's voice stutters from the speaker, telling me to come on up, and the distant tone tells me know to pull on the door. The lift judders its way skyward and I try to ignore the faint background linger of urine and disinfectant.

I raise my hand to knock and the door is flung wide open, crashing against the wall inside, before my knuckles can make contact with the wood.

Annie - tiny, beautiful Annie with her brilliant blue eyes and enormous smile - flings herself at me and grabs me in a powerful embrace, burying her head in my chest and squeezing for all she's worth. I wrap my knocking arm, my only free arm, around her shoulders and rest my cheek in the bed of thick ringlet curls that cascade from her head.

She smells like lemon drops and it briefly reminds me of my nan.

Finally, she lets go and belts me in the upper arm, deadening it. "Ow," I say, rubbing what will surely be a magnificent bruise.

"Where the hell have you been, Pynch?" she says with a scowl. "I haven't seen you in months."

"Yeah," I say. "Sorry… it’s not been a great year so far…"

"Well, come in," she says. "And you can tell me all about it." She turns and skips away into her flat. I follow and gently push the door closed behind me.

"Shoes!" she calls out from the other room - unnecessarily, as I am already stepping on my heels and kicking off my trainers. I follow her through to her living room where she is whirling around, her flowery print dress fanning out around her as she clears books and papers from her couch and leaves them in a tall stack in the centre of the room.

"I brought you a present," I say and proffer her the small package I have in my hand.

"Oh, wow!" she says with glee. "Should I open it now?"

"Either open it now or put it in the fridge," I tell her. She tears into the wrapping paper with gusto while I slip my jacket off and hang it on the corner of the door.

"Oh my gods!" she squeals. "Bacon!" And she darts away into the kitchen, packet in hand. "Thank you so much!" she calls out to me. "I can't even tell you how much I've missed bacon… Laurel won't let me buy meat. No meat of any kind…"

She comes back with two wine glasses dangling upside-down from between her fingers and a half-full bottle of wine, cork jammed in the neck.

"I know," I tell her as she passes me a glass. "I remember."

"But unsolicited gifts… she can't have a go at me for that!" She uncorks the bottle with a soft pop and generously fills my out-stretched glass before pouring some for herself. “It’s a loophole, and I love it.”

"How is Laurel?" I ask. We clink glasses together.

Annie puts a finger to her lips and points next door, through the wall. "Sleeping. Shh…"

Answerphone

It feels like it's been a long day. I drop my keys in the bowl next to the phone, on the sideboard in the hall. The answerphone blinks the number two at me. I press play while I kick off my shoes and start to undo my tie while the machine clicks and whirs to life.

The first message is from an automated cold caller, and starts part-way through the pre-recorded message, asking me if I want to consolidate my debts. I jab the delete button and it skips on to the next. I smile at the sound of a familiar voice:

"…s not there. Just his answerphone… Um, hi, this is um, message for, um, well, you, I guess, nobody else is gonna be listening to this, are they? Er, anyway, yeah, just to say that er, yeah, that should be fine. Sorry to take so long calling you back and everything, but it's been mental. But yeah, you can pop round any time. I should be in most nights this week, so yeah. Whenever.

"Oh! Shit, hang on, sorry, no, Thursday's no good. Don't come on Thursday. In fact, yeah, it would definitely be better if you come round before Thursday, cos I'm gonna be dead busy on Thursday.

"This is Annie, by the way."

And she hangs up. I press the delete button and stroll through to the living room.

The cat is sprawled on the couch, stretched out, eyes closed, sleeping. I throw my tie at it and it starts, claws at it from reflex, then looks lazily at me.

"How the hell do you keep getting in?" I ask, exasperated, but it ignores me, lies back down and goes back to sleep.

Monday morning hangover

I wake up on the couch, a blanket over me and a dead weight on my lap. I try to blink my eyes to clarity, past the nausea, past the pressure inside my skull and fuzzy carpet taste on my tongue. I try to replay the sequence of events that lead to me falling asleep here but fail dismally. The curtains are closed, leaving the room in a dim grey that eases the hangover. I appear to still be dressed in yesterday's clothes, now bunched up and twisted from sleeping in them.

I throw the blanket back and the lump on my lap comes to life, sinking its claws into my thigh. I yelp and spring from the sofa, cracking my shin against the edge of the coffee table in the process. The cat darts out from the blanket and vanishes from the room, leaving me disoriented and rubbing both of my legs.

I wonder what the time is and look at my wrist but my watch is missing. I cast about but cannot see my watch or my phone anywhere. The clock on the VCR blinks 12:00 at me, unhelpfully.

I stagger through to the kitchen, squinting against the brilliant sunshine flooding the room and driving steel lances through my battered brain.

The cat waits by the back door, licking itself. It looks up at me with unconcealed contempt as I pass, heading for the sink. I pull a glass from the Jenga game that is my draining board, wincing at the loud clatter as plates and mugs crash back against each other. I run the tap and hold my hand under the water 'til it chills my fingers. I fill the glass and gulp back the lot before refilling and turning off the water. As I head back to the living room, intent on collapsing onto the couch again, I stop by the backdoor, turn the key and open it. The cat just sits there, mid-lick, looking up at me.

"Go on," I tell it. "Fuck off."

It doesn't. I leave the door ajar and head back to the muted security of the darkened lounge.

As I lay there, head tilted back against a cushion, eyes unfocused and half-closed, I slowly become aware of the aches and pains in my body - exhausted muscles complain; bruises moan on my legs and arms; but chiming out above these are lines burning down my chest. I rub a hand on my ribcage as if such an action might soothe the pain, but it doesn't. I unbutton my shirt a little and allow my hand to reach inside and explore.

My eyes snap wide open and I hurry upstairs to the bathroom. I undo the rest of my shirt and slip it off, fling it to the floor, and stand in front of the mirror.

I don't see the blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. I don't see the ragged, three day-old beard. All I see are the red welts, thin scratches drawing faint criss-cross lines across my chest.

Just like Leon, the last time I saw him.

Hello, my old friend

The blanket of mist that hid the city this morning has dissipated by midday so I choose to sit and eat my lunch in the Sharrow general cemetery and enjoy the brilliant sunshine and blue sky while they last.

I'm watching a blackbird pulling a worm from the ground when I hear a voice shout, "Sam!"

The bird struggles its tug of war to victory and hops away to the bushes with its spoils in its beak.

The voice, closer now, calls out, "Sam?" again and this time I actually look around.

And frown.

The man dressed in loose brown slacks and a polo shirt, walking towards me, looks familiar but I can't place him. At least, not at first. Then, as he gets closer, he smiles broadly, showing his full set of teeth right back to the molars, and suddenly a memory falls into place. I know those teeth, I know that grin…

Peter MacGirwan. I used to work with him, tending bar at one of the god-awful West Street meat-market drinking-holes, now mercifully long closed, rebranded and reopened probably several times by now. He's changed quite dramatically since I last saw him, maybe four, maybe five years ago. The long, lank hair, usually tied back, has gone; instead his mousey brown locks are clippered short revealing his receding hairline. The full, bushy beard, however, is quite new, as are the glasses.

"Hey, man," he says in his burned-out stoner voice - some things never change. "I thought that was you. Didn't you hear me?"

"Nobody calls me that anymore," I tell him.

"Really?" he asks. "You changed your name? By deed poll?"

"Something like that," I say.

"How's what's-her-name…? Lily?"

And I can't help but laugh. "Lily and I broke up, like, three years ago, dude!"

"Bummer," he says. "She was hot."

"Right," I say. "Cheers."

We sit together and we talk a while. Reminisce about wild times, stupid acts of reckless abandon, and bad craziness narrowly avoided. It seems like two lifetimes ago.

Pete's now married, with a kid on the way, and lives in Bournemouth where he works as a financial analyst. He's just in town for a couple of days visiting relatives. I have trouble reconciling such a responsible grown-up with the hard-core hedonist that I used to know.

He asks me what I'm up to these days. I 'um…' and 'er…' and try to change the subject, telling him I have to go back to work.

We trade phone numbers and promise to go for a drink before he leaves. I know we won't, but we make the promise anyway.

He tells me to give him a call if I ever get down to the coast and I tell him I will.

And I go back to work, an odd mixture of nostalgia and regret clinging to me like a bad smell.

This old shirt

She sat slightly hunched over, bad posture, elbow on the breakfast bar. One arm stretched out, hand splayed across the pages of her book, firmly holding it open despite the spine's protestation. The other hand held a slice of toast, thickly spread with raspberry jam, delicately dangling between her fingers. She took a large bite, with a loud crunch, and a dollop of sticky red goo was left on her lip, nestled in the corner of her mouth.

She licked and caught most of it. But not all of it. A smudge remained as she put the toast down and picked up her coffee, black, two sugars. She sipped and caught me staring at her.

"What?" she asked over the rim of her mug.

I just shook my head and tried not to smile, failing only a little.

"What?" she asked again, this time trying not to smile herself.

I walked round the bar to her and cupped her face in my hands. I kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth, taking the remains of the jam away on my own lips.

"You missed a spot," I told her softly and went back to my stool.

"I've lost my place now," she idly complained. Let go, the book had fanned open - any page could be the right page.

I watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, only for it to fall free mere seconds later, and I smiled again.

When she finished her toast, and gulped back the last of her coffee, she padded over to the sink with her crockery and put them in the bowl. She wore one of my old t-shirts, faded and shapeless, barely covering her round little bottom, and I stared at her long, pale legs, soft and smooth to the touch.

"I'm gonna have a shower," she said, went up onto tiptoes to kiss my cheek. I patted her on the behind and she slapped me, lightly, playfully, across the face before sashaying from the room. I watched her go, transfixed.

I become aware of the fact that I've been sitting, staring into space for a while now. My eyes are blurry and my cheeks are wet. A threadbare t-shirt, once emblazoned with the band name 'Canadian Drug Store' now stretched and washed-out almost to illegibility, in my hands.

I press it to my face and breathe deeply. It still smells of her.

I already know I won't get anything done today.

Anyone home?

I knock on Leon's front door and wait. No reply.

I knock again. Harder. And wait. I peek through the speckled glass set into his front door but can only make out a few indistinct shadows and muted colours.

I side-step over to the bay window, but the curtains are drawn. I lean over the small shrubbery sprouting from the flower bed edging the garden and rap my knuckles on the glass. I call out Leon’s name.

Nothing.

I walk the concrete driveway beside the house and round the back to the kitchen window. I cup my hands over the glass and peer in. The setting sun behind me paints the kitchen golden. But nothing looks unusual.

I pace back around to the front again and fish my phone out of my pocket. I thumb down to ‘LEON : HOME’ and jab the call button. After a few seconds to connect, it starts to ring. Through the window I can hear the sympathetic real-world echo. It rings and rings and rings. Nobody answers.

There’s nobody home.

An old woman in a pale green and pink tracksuit walks past on the other side of the road. We make eye contact. She looks at me, judges me. Apparently I don’t look like a thief because she smiles at me as she goes.

“Evening,” I call to her. She raises a hand in salute.

I wait ‘til she’s gone from sight before I hop up the step to the front door. The Yale lock remembers me and opens easily.

The house tastes stale. The air is too still, too cold. But at least there’s nothing terrible lingering, for which I’m extremely grateful.

The living room looks as I remember it. The bookcase is still tipped over from before. An empty beer can is still on the floor next to armchair, where I dropped it. The empty waste basket is still next to the couch, where I put it. But no Leon.

I poke my head into the kitchen. Nothing.

I trot upstairs and open the door to the bathroom. Nothing.

I try the next door. A small beige room with a desk and computer, a few art prints on the walls, papers piled neatly - Leon’s home office. Nothing.

The last door is Leon’s bedroom. Dominated by a brushed-steel four-poster bed, a treadmill in the corner, and a fitted wardrobe down one wall with mirrors mounted on the sliding doors. Clothes sprawl across the floor and drape lazily over the bed frame. Nothing.

I return to the living room, unsure what to do, what to try next.

I sit down on the couch and feel a chill run through me, a shiver that starts at the base of my spine and trickles up to the lizard part of my brain. Suddenly I don't feel welcome in this house and I rise quickly, trying to beat down the surge of panic, the twisting in my gut, the unshakable feeling of being watched by a hunter's eyes.

I search for a blank piece of paper, eventually having to fetch one from his office upstairs, and hastily scrawl a message for Leon:

"LEON, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

I sign it simply 'RP' and tape it to the wall by the front door - somewhere he'll definitely see it when he comes back, if he comes back.

Outside, the sun has set and the sky is greying quickly. A chill wind has picked up, swirling dust around the house. I turn up my collar against it and pull the front door closed behind me as I leave.

For a moment I think I hear that name again, but it must be the wind, can only be the wind, and so I ignore it...

Lise

I haven’t seen Leon. It’s been a week and a half.

Normally I wouldn’t be worried. He frequently vanishes for weeks at a time. And loses phones with such frequency that Leon himself theorises that he unknowingly projects some manner of magnetic field capable of repelling phones.

But it’s when Lise corners me as I’m coming out of work, desperate to know if I’ve seen him, desperate to know what’s happened to him, that I start to worry.

Lise is an intimidating young woman, tall, lean, and muscular. Tattoos swirl around her upper arms, blaze across her chest, and wash over her back. Metal glitters her lips, nose and eyebrows. She physically slams me back against the wall to interrogate me.

I swear I can almost see tears in her eyes. And that’s what worries me most.

Lise hasn’t seen him either. And, even when Leon drops off radar, Lise always knows where he is. If only because he can’t go longer than the working week without turning up at her flat, drunk, horny and interested in a bout of shameless booty-call sex. Which, of course, she happily indulges.

They dated for a tempestuous couple of months, from just before xmas 2007 ‘til just after Valentine's 2008, but since they broke up they’ve been oddly exclusive, even though they lead almost entirely separate lives – they don’t live together… they don’t go out together… as far as I am aware what little time they do spend together, they spend naked.

I don’t judge their ‘relationship’. If anything I’m jealous. Whatever you want to call it, it works for them.

And he's missing. He’s not answering his phone. He’s not answering any voicemail or text and his landline simply rings and rings.

And she’s concerned.

And she blames me.

“Cos you saw him last, Reynard,” she hisses in my face.

Summertime

There's something strange in the air today.

I can feel it on the edges of perception. A tingle on the skin. A brightness to colour. A weight that has lifted. A change in pressure. Everything is lighter, crisper, more defined. The wind has died away. The gusts that have been a feature of the past week, blowing gales down the wind-tunnel that is my road, have dispersed and now the sunshine can warm me as I walk along Bernard Street towards the car wash nestled beneath Hyde Park Terrace.

Dave is waiting there in his beaten-up red Fiesta, sixties psychedelia playing softly on the stereo and wafting from his open window. He sees me coming and gets out. He's a large man and it takes him a while to unfold from behind the wheel.

"Hey, Pynch," he says in his lazy drawl and engulfs me in a hug that squeezes the breath from my lungs. I have to tap on his back a couple of times before he lets go. "I heard what happened…" he starts to say but I cut him off.

"Don't worry about it," I tell him and rapidly change the subject. "Did you get it?"

"Sure," he says and reaches back into his car. He produces a small, clear, plastic bag with a small brown lump inside and dangles it between two fingers. "Was a bitch to get hold of though. I'd try and make that last if I were you. Dunno when I'll be able to get any more."

He hands it to me and I take it, open the bag and sniff what's inside. It smells like woodchips and stale cider. "Brilliant," I say and stuff it into the pocket of my jeans. "Are you hanging about?"

"Nah," Dave says. "I said I'd try and get back down to Nottingham before 6 and it's already gone 5."

I look at my watch. Ten past 4 it says and I say as much to Dave. He laughs at me, calls me a muppet and explains that the clocks went forward an hour last night. British Summer Time is here.

I wonder if that's what's throwing me off today.

Dave offers me a lift but I decline - there are other errands to run before the weekend is out and he's not going in the same direction as me.

It's dark by the time I get home. A crescent silver sliver hangs in the sky. The streets seem eerily calm and empty, even for a Sunday night, and I amble up the middle of the road without fear. So few illuminated windows on my street. Where is everyone?

I reach my door and the cat trots out from the bushes, starts to wind itself around my ankles. "Evening, puss," I say and reach down to scratch it behind the ears. It makes a half-hearted attempt to bite me which I all but ignore.

I open the door and the cat darts in ahead of me, vanishing off into the kitchen. I wander through to the living room and empty my pockets onto the coffee table. Three baggies, one envelope and a small cardboard box about an inch and a half square. A good haul, a successful day.

Only one thing missing.

I'll have to go and see Annie this week.

Meow

I struggle the plastic sack from the bin. It's stuck to the inside and does not want to come loose. After much shaking, and kicking the bin several times, it comes free, tearing slightly but fortunately not enough to split it open and dump its contents over the lino.

I tie off the top, ignoring the potent stench of rotting food wafting from within, and take it out the back door to the patio where the wheelie bin waits hungrily.

And I stop.

There is a cat, sat on the lid of my bin, staring at me with yellow distrust. A black cat. Entirely black save for a single white smudge, like a tear, beneath its left eye. I have never seen this cat before - as far as I'm aware, it doesn't belong to any of my neighbours.

"Shoo," I tell it.

It squints at me, pupils narrow to slits.

"Shoo!" I say again and follow it up with a backhand swipe.

The cat doesn't react. If anything it settles even more. Definitely not one of the neighbours' cats - every single one of them is terrified of me and runs off before I can get even close.

"Fine," I huff and reach a hand out to lift the lid.

The cat lashes one clawed paw at me and I draw back quickly. A deep rumbling growl comes from its throat.

"What the fuck is your problem?" I ask the cat rhetorically.

It replies with a lazy flick of its tail.

"Mardy little shitbag," I mutter and carry the bag back into the house. I drop the rubbish on the floor next to the empty bin and fetch a new bag from the drawer. A glance out of the window and the cat has vanished from its perch.

I grab the bag again, open the door and jog out to the bin. I throw the lid open, chuck the rubbish in and slam it closed with far more force than was strictly necessary. Then I head back inside and make a cup of tea, putting the fresh bin bag in the bin while the kettle boils.

I wander into the living room with my cuppa and there on the couch, in my usual place, is the cat.

"Oi!" I exclaim.

The cat just looks at me with sleepy, half-closed eyes then drops its head back down on its paws.

I put my mug on the coffee table and reach down with both hands to pick up this feline intruder.

Fast like lightning this time, its claws scratch my index finger and I flinch away, jam my wounded digit in my mouth. I taste the sharp coppery tang of blood on my tongue.

"Fine, fuck you," I go and sit in the armchair on the other side of the room and sulk, still sucking on my wound.

We eye each other suspiciously.

This could be the start of a beautiful friendship…

On the tiles with Leon - Part 3

Leon has no idea where his shirt might be and the bouncers refuse to let us back in the club for his jacket so I lend him mine.

I flag down a taxi and, as it pulls up, he burps and yaks up a lump of something large, and wet, and orange - orange! – and the taxi pulls away again without stopping.

“Cheers,” I tell him. He stands there, swaying, looking me with bleary, blinking eyes.

“What?” he says, lacking any kind of comprehension.

I shake my head and continue looking for a cab. Leon wobbles over to me and starts touching my face. I swat his hands away and do my best to hold my temper.

"What the fuck have you taken?" I ask him. He just laughs, like the very question is the most hilarious thing he's ever heard.

By the time I manage to attract another cab Leon is babbling incessantly in no language I recognise, and I am grateful that he is, at least, doing it quietly. I may actually be able to get him home without freaking out the driver.

It’s as I get him to his door that he turns his head to me and says, “I don’t have my key,” with a sudden level of lucidity that is remarkable.

I prop him against the wall and work my magic on the lock. Then, with a firm push, the door swings open and I turn to Leon and tell him, “it’s just as well you’ve got a Yale. I only know how to do that on a Yale.”

Without another word he weaves his way into the dark house. There comes a crash from deep in the shadows and I sigh wearily, kick the front door closed behind me, and follow him in, my fingers tracing the walls looking for light switches.

I find him in the living room where he's clearly managed to pull a bookcase over and, more from luck than any judgement, managed to avoid it crushing him. Now he's slumped sideways on the couch, head lolling back, speaking in tongues again.

I wander through to the kitchen, cross to the fridge in the uncertain flicker of a dying strip light, and find a couple of beers. I take one - it's the least Leon can do - and head back to the living room, popping the ring pull as I go.

I settle into an armchair and watch him. He continues to mumble to himself, occasionally writhing around. At one point he struggles out of my coat and flings it away. I just sit and drink and listen to the rhythms of his jabbering, rising and falling like waves.

Soothed, I start to drift off.

My eyelids droop.

My head lolls.

Then I snap back awake again. Something that Leon has said has punched through the gathering fog and hit me squarely in the chest. A name. A name that I haven't heard for years.

I'm across the room in the blink of an eye, before the abandoned beer can even hit the carpet, and I'm shaking Leon by the shoulder, asking him to say it again, screaming in his face to repeat himself. But he doesn't stir. Eyes open but glazed, focused on nothing. Mouth opening and closing silently now. The scratches down Leon's torso are still oozing slightly but now they look less like scrapes and more like shapes, figures, characters in some lost language.

Fear cracks my ribcage and grabs my heart, squeezes it tight.

I can't think straight. Too much booze makes my head swim.

I have to leave. Leon will be fine. I put the waste basket by his feet, in case he's sick later in the night, then I grab my coat and hurry out the door, back into the chill of the night.

On the tiles with Leon - Part 2

Now the sinking I feel is entirely Leon’s fault. Another two, maybe three minutes and I would have been out of the door, flagging down a taxi, probably even already on my way home to a comfortable bed. Now I’m duty bound to help.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a nice guy. After all, if I could only care less, I wouldn’t be sucked into other people’s dramas so readily, so willingly…

Shouting into my phone, ignoring the evil looks from those around me, I try to get Leon to tell me where he is. The phone just goes dead in my hand.

I ask the people around me, the ones that might know Leon – and many people know Leon and his famous muttonchops – where he is but nobody knows. The most promising idea is that he has gone outside to smoke.

I head outside and get blasted by cold as soon as I step out the door.

I shove through the pockets of smokers clustered by the entrance, huddling together for warmth, neon penguins in their trendy clubware, hands rammed into the pockets of skinny jeans, shoulders hunched against the wind. I can't see Leon anywhere and all my enquiries are greeted with blank stares.

I try to phone him again but it just rings on and on.

So… I try using my intuition. I turn left, the wind at my back, and walk down the street. At the corner I turn left to get out of the wind and that's where I find Leon, lying on the ground, shirtless, flailing weakly, rolling gently from side to side, huge scratches weeping blood down his chest and arms.

"ferchrissake," I mutter. I follow it up with a loud, clear, "Leon?" but only manage to elicit more rolling and some pathetic mewling. I kick the sole of his shoe and bark his name.

This time his eyes roll to look at me and he holds his arms up and open as though to embrace me, a stupid grin plasters itself across his face.

"Pynch!" he says. "Fuckin' Pynch! I fuckin' love you, man."

I sigh and take his hand, haul him to his feet. He grabs me in monstrous bear hug, pinning both my arms to my sides, and leans all of his weight into me. We both stumble a few steps and I step off the kerb to keep from falling over, only to have a cab blare its horn and swerve wildly, missing me by inches.

“Leon,” I say gently in his ear. “Let go of me.” But he doesn’t.

In fact, he appears to be rubbing himself against me.

I have no choice.

I pinch his nipple.

Hard.

He leaps away with a squeal, rubbing his chest with his hand. I watch him stagger backwards and collide with a low wall. And I wince as he tumbles a lazy cartwheel over and vanishes.

On the tiles with Leon - Part 1

As I get older I worry about things I never thought I’d find myself concerned by.

Things like my humanity. Something I’d always taken for granted. Something I’d assumed, by default, that I was a part of. But the older I get, the more detached from the rest of mankind I feel. Older… certainly no wiser… but sometimes feeling less like I ‘belong’ with every day that passes.

I wonder whether I’ve missed my opportunities for growth by now. Perhaps I should have found myself a wife. Perhaps I should have spawned. Perhaps this would have made me a good and productive member of society. Perhaps it would have drawn my attention away from these dark things…

Perhaps I would still be this boy in a man’s body, simply burdened by other cares, other responsibilities – a wife, a child… mouths to feed, people to provide for… People to keep safe.
Something I can barely do for myself.

But there is no way of knowing and still it tugs at the back of my mind that perhaps I’ve disappointed the people that made me… the mother I hardly knew, the father that died before he could teach me to be a man.

It’s times like this that I wonder about these things - standing in the middle of dancefloor, jostled by the drunken youth I used to consider myself a part of, feeling utterly disconnected from everything around me.

Leon snorts at me, tells me to shut the fuck up, that at least I’m still in my twenties, that I, at least, still have time. Then he tries to tell me I’m at odds with these people because half of them are off their heads on a variety of drugs – ecstasy… cocaine… ketamine… speed… any cocktail thereof… who can tell? All pupils look the same when they’ve dilated, engulfed the iris, darkness taking over the eyeball like some expansionist dictatorship – and I’m simply drunk. And then he tries to convince me to pop a pill of some unknown and unknowable variety. I decline – too many experiences turned bad.

But perhaps that’s it. Perhaps I’m not operating on the right pharmaceutical levels.

Or perhaps it’s just too soon. My own internal chemicals are still all shot to hell.

“It’s been weeks, dude,” Leon says, doing his best to dance in miniature. “You’ve gotta get past it, man. Fuck her. Live your life.” Then he can’t hold it in anymore and he’s off, weaving, jerking his body to the beat, every pounding moment expressed through a convulsion of his spine or a wave of his arms. And he’s gone, dissolved into the dancing mass.

I shrug it off, struggle my way to the bar. I can’t believe that the fact that I haven’t taken anything is why I feel so at odds with the revellers around me. These people so clearly having fun… flaunting it in front of me… All I can summon up is irritation – jostled by idiots that spill their drinks on me… tread on my feet… barge into me without a word of apology… look at me with hollow expressions that judge me…

I so desperately want to feel a part of this, but I don’t. And I drink steadily to numb this feeling of isolation. Even though this drink is probably what has driven this wedge. Or maybe this drink. Maybe this one. Maybe each and every one.

I check my watch and can't quite work out where the last few hours have vanished to but the collection of empty beer bottles racking up on the floor next to my chair may hold the key.

This last bottle is almost empty and I’m readying myself to leave when my phone buzzes in my trouser pocket. A call from Leon. I put it to my ear and jam a finger in the other. I can still barely hear him but it sounds like he's whispering, "fuck… Pynch… fuck… help me…"

Fag break

I have to approach seven different people before I find anyone willing to give me a cigarette. I fondly recall a time when it was easy to find somebody that generous - whatever happened to the brotherhood, the fellowship, the unspoken bond between smokers...? Time was a selfless act like giving away a cigarette would karmically ensure that were you ever to run out, somebody would reciprocate. All smokers knew this - though you would be forgiven for not giving away your last one - it goes with the territory: welcome to The Cancer Club. Here is your membership card… This is the club charter…

No more. Generous smokers are now a dying breed.

So I sit on the wall outside work, kicking my heels against the brickwork and rolling my hard-won cigarette, unlit, backwards and forwards between my fingers.

I gave up smoking for her. Almost two years now, without a single puff. And all done by willpower alone. No patches, no gum. No hypnosis, no support groups. Just willpower. And the desire to please, to impress - she gave up smoking a month before I met her and inspired me by her example. I had always said that I would be willing to quit for the right reason. She had certainly been reason enough. Or so it had seemed.

In any case, I hadn't wanted to mess anything up between us by still puffing away while she struggled through her own cravings.

A dutiful boyfriend or a doormat wuss? It seems to matter very little now that she's gone.

What matters is the powerful self-destructive impulse to start smoking again.

…the crackle as it burns, the scratch down my windpipe, the lazy twirl of blue smoke in the air…

I tuck it behind my ear. I'll save it. Maybe smoke it later.

Bill - Part 2

I'm not paying attention, my mind preoccupied, and I miss my stop. I get off the bus at St Lawrence Road and stroll back towards the M1. I find Bill standing at the corner of Newburn Drive. Smoking. Of course. I try to ignore the craving that rears its ugly head.

Bill doesn't acknowledge my presence at first. Instead he pinches his cigarette off halfway down and tosses the glowing cherry to the gutter.

"You're late," he says in a gruff voice without even looking at me.

"Yeah, sorry, the bus was late," I tell him.

He looks at me accusingly as he tucks what's left of his cigarette behind his ear. "Next time get an earlier bus," he tells me quite categorically. He adjusts the satchel slung over his shoulder, turns away and strides off. I trot after him.

I follow him down to the banks of the Don in silence - Bill is not much of a talker. Standing by the river, I watch as he fishes a cup from his bag and half shuffles, half slides down to the water's edge. He dips the cup in and comes back up to join me. He takes a large mouthful of the dirty water and swills it round like it's mouthwash before spitting it back at the river. I try my best not to make a face.

"Yep," Bill says as if I'd asked him a question and flings the rest of the cup away. I stick my hands in my pockets and wait patiently while he puts the cup back in his satchel. "Come on then," he says and heads off towards Meadowhall.

"Look, Bill," I say after another minute of walking in silence. "As much fun as it is for me to watch you drinking sewage, was there something you needed to see me about?"

"Yeah," he replies without looking at me. He fishes in his satchel and pulls out a small wooden box. He hands it to me. "I need you to look after this for me," he says.

"Okaaaay…" I say, turning it over in my hands. The wood is densely grained and varnished to a high sheen; there is a single small keyhole on the front but no key. "Do I need to know what's in this?"

He stops abruptly and looks at me appraisingly. He scratches at the week's worth of grey beard growth on his chin. He looks older. His wrinkles have deepened. His skin is tanned like weathered leather.

"No," he says and walks off.

"And that's all you needed to see me about?" I call after him.

"Yes," he calls back.

A moment later he is gone and I am left wondering how long it'll be until the next bus arrives.

Bill - Part 1

The sunshine is warm and fuzzy, as though refracted through frosted glass, and makes everything appear in soft focus.

My hangover is not what I feared it would be this morning, and a couple of dry-swallowed aspirin should keep it at bay. But I still feel shattered and would give anything to still be sound asleep, even in my bed… so large and empty…

But that's not my decision to make. Arriving home late last night, I found a note through my letterbox. A single piece of plain white paper, folded over once, emblazoned with a single word: 'Tomorrow'. No signature, no return address, just a thumbprint in the same red ink. Bill Huntsman… It's been a while.

I stop off in town and pick up a coffee from Starbucks. Just going to such a chain makes me feel a dirty, but I only have a few minutes before the number 69 bus is due to arrive at the Arundel Gate interchange and without caffeine I'll be asleep before I reach Tinsley. Since I don't fancy waking up in Rotherham, I bite the bullet and order myself a large espresso and load it with four sugars.

I sip my coffee while I wait for the bus and I people-watch to pass the time. Spring appears to have sprung. Everywhere I look people have forsaken their heavy winter coats. Sunglasses have blossomed on the faces of passers-by. Young girls flaunt their legs.

And everywhere I look I see her. The same cropped bob hairstyle becomes a repeating motif. The same bouncy confident walk flounces past me from every direction. At first glance, her face superimposes on every girl I see. For a moment I feel like crying. A swell of emotion that rises up from my gut and threatens to overwhelm my very stoic public façade. I bite it back but my eyes still prickle and blur. I yawn, largely to try and hide my feelings.

I want a cigarette.

The bus is late and I really want a cigarette.

Paddy's Day

At a quarter to six, I put the kettle on and throw teabags into two mugs. I leave them to brew and watch the clock. The minute hand ticks to ten to and the doorbell rings. Right on time.

Sara is unnaturally good at timekeeping. I honestly don't know how she does it but if you arrange to meet her at a specific time she always arrives at exactly the right time.

The right time by your clock.

It's uncanny. I've tried winding the clock forwards by as much as twenty minutes, she simply arrives twenty minutes early. Wind the clock back and she arrives late. Test her with more than one timepiece and she splits the difference. It's like magic, but no magic I know.

I open the door to an angry young woman. Sara bustles past me, straight down the corridor and into the living room, cradling her handbag in both arms. I push the door closed and go back to the kitchen to finish making the tea.

Sara is a hardened tea drinker. The bag has to have at least five minutes to brew and she drinks it without frivolous luxuries like milk or sugar. Like I say, hard-core. I mean, I like mine strong but even I need a splash of milk in there to take the edge off.

I carry the tea through to the living room where Sara is still unwrapping herself from her scarf, huffing and puffing in irritation. I don't ask, I just put the mugs on the coffee table, next to the needles and tubing, and go over to the telly and flick it on.

"God!" Sara exclaims as she slumps into an armchair.

"Everything alright?" I ask as I lay down on the couch and roll up my sleeve.

"Not exactly," she says and then comes over to me and takes my arm. She moans about her boyfriend, Richard, while she ties off my arm. I look away while she messes with the needles and the tubing and don't look back until I can feel the rubber against my arm.

Sara is a nurse. And an absolute natural at finding veins - this time I didn't even feel the needle going in, but there it is and my dark red blood is flowing nicely into the bag.

"There you go," she says as she holds the tube in place with a strip of tape. I can feel it vibrating against my skin in unison with my own pulse.

She sits back in the chair and fishes in her vast, amorphous handbag for her cigarettes. She lights one and picks up her cuppa.

Twenty minutes of bitching and another round of tea later, Sara clamps off the tubes, takes the needle out of my arm and seals the bag of blood she's just drained from me. I sit holding a wad of gauze in the crook of my arm.

"It's Paddy's Day today," she says as she passes me my warm blood pack. She's much calmer now, the venting has done her good.

"I had heard." I go through to the kitchen, chuck the pack in the fridge and grab a plaster from the drawer in the corner.

"Fancy a pint?" she calls through to me. And I do.

We head into town together and wind up at the Wetherspoons by Barkers Pool, where we both drink several pints of Guinness. Sara never ceases to amaze me - I've never seen a girl down the black stuff with such relish. "Irish roots," she tells me with a nod and a wink.

I'm tipsy quickly. After my fourth pint I fall over and crack my head on a bench. Sara can't stop laughing, even while blood I can ill-afford to lose trickles down my face. Her laughter is infectious though and soon has me giggling like an idiot.

Then the bar staff politely ask us to leave.

Waking up alone

I wake up a good forty five minutes before my alarm is set to go off. Unable to return to the sweet, dreamless sleep of moments ago, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. All of my thoughts are of her. My hand, outstretched, lays palm-down on what was her side of the bed. Still is her side of the bed to me, even though she has not slept in it for almost two weeks.

I don't move until the alarm clock begins its interminable chiming and even then it's only to press the snooze button. I can afford to torture myself for another nine minutes.

Nine minutes that pass all too quickly. I drag my weary body downstairs in search of breakfast but there is no cereal left, and no clean bowl to eat it from if there was. The fruit juice smells a tad sharp but I drink it anyway, straight from the carton, and head upstairs to shower, swirling and sloshing the dregs between gulps.

A joyless shower that does little to cleanse or refresh, I towel off and pad, naked, back to my room where I stand in front of my open wardrobe and stare at the clothes within.

Specifically I stare at her clothes. Several changes of clothes - thongs, tights, vest tops - all folded neatly and nestled on the shelf I cleared for her. Several of her dresses hang like vampire bats from the rail.

In my junk room I select a box and empty the contents onto the floor. Mostly rubbish - old letters and bank statements, unrecycled magazines, flyers for nights and gigs never attended, forgotten photos that have stuck together in solidarity - and memories from childhood packed up tight and cleared out of the parental home but never unpacked, never welcomed to the new life. The box will suffice.

Once all her clothes are packed away I place the box in the hallway, by the front door, mark it with my trusty Big Black Pen: HERS.

Then I get ready for work.

I am half an hour late.