Day Two (Chapter One - Our Hero Lies Down - In the Pub)

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Chorister

A child. The photograph was at one time black-and-white, but it has faded through the years to gray-and-gray. A single dark circle of metal attaches it to the wall, and has marked the surface of the image with a little dark discolouration. The background - perhaps a churchyard - is indistinct, obviously not the focus of the piece. Someone's shoulder sticks into the frame from the left, an adult's shoulder. The child looks serious, but only for a moment. Experience suggests we are probably looking at a boy. He wears the formal uniform of someone who praises God, and perhaps he looks flushed. There is colour in his cheeks, certainly. It is cold, where he is. A book is clutched protectively in front of him, and his body is slightly turned away from us. He has short hair in a style that is not so much out-of-date as eternal. At school, his peers probably accuse him of having his hair styled by his mother with a bowl and a pair of scissors. But it's his father that cuts his hair. Time has bruised his skin obviously, blurred his vestments, but his face is clear.

It shines.

* * *

The Battle of Britain had raged in the room above until well after midnight, and I had then had to lie awake until two listening to the enthusiastic grunting and creaking that came afterwards. Twice. In between I had to listen to what sounded like Barry Mannilow being tortured to death by a man who'd had his tune-carrying abilities gouged out with a sharp spoon. I considered banging on the ceiling or maybe just yelling "Shut the fuck up for Christ's sake" but in the end decided it wasn't worth the hassle. Sleep sucked me down around half-two. I woke up four times; once at four in the morning to what sounded like pipes, or sobbing, or something, outside my door. Once at half-six when the alarm went off, then again at twenty-to-seven when the alarm became more insistent, then finally at half-ten. That time I managed to pull on some trousers, get my boots on, and find enough change to call work and tell them I was still feeling "too sick to come in." I put just enough whine into my voice, I nearly convinced myself. "Call Me Debbie" sounded sceptical on the other end of the telephone. She became inquisitive. What a time for her to show initiative, and what a bad sign it was. Why was I in a telephone box, she wanted to know. I kept my voice pained, and told her I hadn't any credit on my 'portable (which was true enough). She seemed to accept that, but the inability to control eye-contact was showing. I finished off by promising I'd be in tomorrow as I was sure I'd be well enough.

Hell has a circle all it's own for liars, I hear. On the way back to bed, I nearly ended up in hospital.

Irony, it seemed, had gotten out of bed before me and been at her sick work. She'd left a roller-skate in the front hall, concealed partially under some fallen junk-mail. I might have knocked the letters there myself, barging into the communal hall table on my way to the telephone box. Either way, my foot went out from under me and I landed heavily on my arse, knocked a drift of words onto the threadbare carpet around me, and slammed the table against the radiator as I went down. I smacked my head, waking the pain up again from relaxes slumber into grumbling irritation. I said a rude word, quite loudly.

Almost immediately, a door was slamming open and I was treated to the sight of the Woman Upstairs in an egg-stained blue dressing-gown that did not close properly. See peered over the bannisters and started simultaneously whining and threatening, her voice fit to etch glass, or possibly even metal. It was certainly ripping it's way through mere bone. From the thickness in her voice, she wasn't entirely sober. I was going to wake the kiddies up ("isn't it a school-day" I thought but did not say); worse there were peoplet rying to sleep; there was no call for taht sort of fucken language when the kiddies could hear; if I woke up her man he'd show me what for; and so on and so forth. I grunted something as I stood up and hobbled back down to my room. She became high-pitched because I'd apparently left before she got to the good bit. After I shut the door I could hear her, continuing to complain about my existence, as she returned to her own flat. I could hear her moving around as I stood with my back to the door. Hear His voice grumbling and maybe threatening. Then it went quiet again.

Neither of us made any effort to move the roller-skate. Let someone else break their neck, I thought woozily, as I slipped back into bed.

(Later)

It was live music night, which I had forgotten. I cursed my luck the minute I stepped through the door and realised. Worse, the music being perpetrated was folk music. Irish folk music, if I was any judge. The band were being enthusiastic. My headache stirred again. I used my last piece of folding cash to purchase some fine alcohol, and looked for Gavin.

Gavin is one of my older friends; we met after a club at a party around four years ago and have been drinking together on and off since. He was sat at our usual table near the back door, watching the band and banging his half-empty glass on the table-top in time to something that sounded like "Dirty Old Town" sung without passion and played without skill. I carried both pints over to the table and sat down. We chatted and drank. He was a bit moody, but I didn't enquire why. Gavin's brother is in the army.

The band took a break, and Gavin and I played on one of the quiz machines. We did quite well on Popular Music and by one of those happy coincidences I knew that Ludwig van Beethoven had died in 1827. We had a few more pints. I told Gavin about the incident with the roller-skate. He told me about why he and his woman had broken up (for the third time this year).

He asked me what I was doing for Christmas, which took me a little aback. Normally, Gavin spends Christmas with his family who live locally. They're one of those big families that poor people seem to like belonging to; cousins and uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces; a large population of similar looking people spread over a surprisingly small area. I've met some of them, and one drunken night a few years ago Gavin tried to explain his relatives. We drew a map, but gave up halfway through. I very briefly dated one of his cousins, but not in any serious way. The family started putting pressure on, so I ended it. Gavin and I fell out for a week or so. These things happen. He's close to his family. For him, they're a resource and a support and I don't think he could imagine anything other than being part of them.

Since his mum died, though, he's not been going home much. I said I wasn't doing anything much and was saved from awkwardness as the band returned for the second part of their set. They'd changed their singer - a woman, and while she wasn't much to look at she had the voice of . . . well, you know. In contrast to the earlier set, this was a more acoustic run, quite at odds with the clientele and the pub's reputation. Gavin continued to talk for a bit, but it was obvious that I wasn't paying much attention.

I'm not much of a musician. I've been in a band - well, who hasn't? - and I know what I like but that's as far as it goes. This woman, though . . . I must admit I sort of lost track of what was going on. The rest of the bar became so much set-dressing. I started off watching her sing, then realised that my eyes were watering and it looked like I was crying. I closed my eyes and just listened. I didn't know many of the songs, didn't understand the language for a few of them. She was very good. The whole pub quietened down. She finished with a song I knew only from an ex-girlfriend, some typical folk tosh about fairs and old loves.

My young love said to me
My father won't mind
And my mother won't slight you
For your lack of kind

I found myself crying, and I didn't know why.

I managed to hide my distress from Gavin, who was at the bar. At least it wasn't carols - that would come in the next few weeks. Gavin went home, and I went back to my flat. I was a bit stumbling and my legs seemed to belong to someone who'd been drinking a lot more than I had been. I had to stop twice to drain some of my good-mood.

The hall was unlit, the bulb having "gone" again (in the context of having been stolen, rather than having worn out. They didn't get time to wear out). I moved carefully, not wanting to repeat the roller-skate incident. The entire house was as quiet as I'd ever heard it. There was someone on the upper-flight of the stairs, sat in the dark. I couldn't make them out, just the suggestion of someone there. There's no windows into the lower hall, and the light from the windows on the upper hall didn't filter down to me. My shoulders started to prickle. I put my back against the wall, and moved a little quicker than I should have done down to my "apartment". As I fumbled my keys out, I fancied I heard them (whomever they were) standing up. I wasn't happy. Him Upstairs has some very, very dodgy mates indeed as I know to my cost. I didn't fancy the sort of trouble they carried around with them. As I got the door unlocked, I heard him (I was convinced it was a man, but it might as easily have been a woman) coming down the stairs. I went into my flat quickly, locking the door behind me, and I moved right back to the other side of the room. I flicked the television on for company and stood there listening. I didn't hear the front door go for several minutes, and when I did I relaxed. I heard someone going upstairs, and the upstairs flat door opening, and then about ten minutes later the row started. Brilliant.

They didn't last long tonight; I think they were both too drunk. There was the sound of something breaking, and someone threatening to break some fucking cunt's neck, and one of the kids crying and yelling, but that didn't go on long, and then a few more minutes of shouting and then it went quiet.

I assumed that whomever had been on the stairs had left when the door was opened.

It was a little while before I fell asleep, though, and I left the bedside lamp on when I did.