The Life Of Jim (Part 3)

The cheap, strong cider, hit the spot. After five pints, I decided to make my way to the bookies and check the results. It was good news, one winner out of two. I’d laid out sixty quid and got eighty-three back. I put the money in my back pocket and stumbled into the Wetherspoons opposite. No Brenda. That was disappointing, but Irish Theresa was there, sitting in the corner on her own. She had a dark liquid in a glass in front of her. I guessed it was either Scotch and Coke or Brandy and Coke. I walked up to the bar once again, feeling flush after picking up my winnings. I knew the barman, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember his name. I think I’d once thrown a punch at him after an all-day bender. He obviously recognised me and just nodded, no smile.

“Yeah?”

“Large scotch for me with just a dash of lemonade, and whatever Theresa’s having?”

His expression didn’t change. I think the punch was still fresh in his memory.

“She’s on large Brandy and Coke, been on them all afternoon, I’d stay clear if I were you. You know what she’s like after too much booze.”

I knew exactly what she was like. She’d once tried to stab a mate of mine who’d commented on her tits. She went crazy, stupid really, because he was just saying how nice and firm they were for someone of her age. It was a compliment, but Theresa didn’t see it that way, and they ended up rolling around on the floor. Someone called the Police, and they took both of them away. What’s the world coming to when two drunks can’t fight in a pub without someone calling the old bill?

So, anyway, I pay for the drinks and walk over to Theresa. I don’t say anything, I just put the drink down in front of her and sit down opposite. She looks up, she smiles.

“Thanks, Jim.”

Theresa is in her late forties, was once a stunner with those lady Irish good looks. Rugged and beautiful, she was. But now, life has taken its toll. But there’s still fire in those green eyes, and I know from experience that there's some fire in other parts of her as well.

She looks at me, grins and knocks back one of her drinks.

“Where you been, Jim? Not seen you for ages. Thought you might be dead.”

This makes me laugh. I lean back in my chair and shake my head.

“Not yet, Theresa, I’m only halfway through. In fact, I’m gonna be the bloke that turns the lights out!”

She likes my answer and giggles like a teenager.

“Oh, Jim, you are such a charmer.”

I think I’m in. Theresa might be up for it after a few more Brandies. She drains the glass of her second drink.

“I’ll get this round Jim, if you give me the cash, I’ll go and get them.”

I give her a tenner, and she walks off to the bar.

I’m thinking that this might take a while, so I’m quickly counting the cash left in my pockets. I’m guessing that Theresa is skint, so it might be an expensive night. But suddenly there’s a commotion at the bar. Oh fuck, Theresa has got the barman by the throat and has somehow got behind the bar. I quickly down my drink, get up and make my way to the door. Behind me, I hear a scream and the sound of breaking glass. I’m confident that the scream is from the barman, because it certainly doesn’t sound like Theresa!

Oh well, time to head home. I’ve got a nice bottle of sherry and a few beers to see me through the night. On the way, I pass a place we call “The Benches”. It’s three wooden council benches in a line, put there so old people could meet and have a chat while doing their shopping. But not anymore, it’s a place where drunks and the homeless gather to spend a few hours drinking whatever they’ve managed to beg, borrow or steal during the day. I’ve spent quite a few hours at “The Benches”.

A voice shouts out, “Jim, Jim Sutton. Is that you?”

I haven’t heard my last name spoken out loud since I was in court four months ago.

I turn round and see a familiar face. Tommy Roberts from Jubilee Street is sitting down, holding up a bottle of what looks like Red Wine.

“It is you, you old Bastard. Come and have a swig. It’s good stuff. Come on Jim, come and have a drink.”

I haven’t seen Tommy in ages. I’d feared he was either banged up or dead. We worked together at the old Brewery for years, his wife was a good friend of my wife, Sarah.

“Oh, go on then, Tommy. But just the one, I’ve got a little sweet something waiting for me indoors!”

He laughs.

“Typical Jimmy Sutton, always was one for the girls.”

I sit next to him, and he passes me the bottle. I take a long, slow gulp and then give it back. It tastes like the discharge from an abattoir on a warm day. But certainly has a kick. I have a feeling that Tommy has mixed something with the red wine, maybe vodka?

There’s a short silence before Tommy speaks, and there’s a certain sadness in his voice.

“I’ve not been great lately, Jim, but, you know what it’s like, we get through it mate, don’t we.”

It’s not a question, and he’s not looking for sympathy. It’s just a fact of life.

He gives me a nudge, and suddenly his face changes. He’s smiling.

“Got myself a bird for the night, Jim.”

He turns and looks behind us. Passed out on the concrete is Brenda.

“She’s coming home with me tonight, when she wakes up.”

I make my excuses and head for home. It’s been a long day.