The Life Of Jim ( Part 6)

I stay at Ronnies till closing time. I’m wasted. The inevitable happened. I was supplied with more drinks than I could consume, which is a first for me. Word had got round about Brenda, and for some reason, a few people in the pub thought that she was my girlfriend or something, so they bought me a beer or a scotch out of sympathy. I took them, of course, but felt guilty. Then I remembered Brenda and thought she would have loved the irony. There was a time when Brenda had a wicked sense of humour.

Ronny walks me to a cab, and I fall into the back seat. I’m sober enough to talk. “Poplar, please mate. You know Bumdaddies? Drop me there.”

He looks at me as though I’m speaking Chinese. I try to explain that it’s just a nickname.

“It's really called the Manor House, you know it? Poplar? East India Dock Road?”

He nods. I think he's worried that I might chuck up in his cab. No chance. I’m an experienced drunk. We don’t throw up, and if we do, we do it secretly when no one’s watching.

The journey takes just ten minutes, and I fall out of the cab. The driver wants fifteen quid. I laugh and throw him a tenner. Then I give him one of my snarls.

“I might be drunk, but don’t take the piss.”

He takes the money and drives off.

Bumdaddies is closed, but it's not, if you know what I mean.

I bang on the door. A pair of eyes look out from behind the glass door.

“It’s okay, it's Jim!”

The door opens, and an arm grabs mine. “Come on mate, let me buy you a beer.”

I don’t recognise the voice, but I accept gracefully. It’s well after midnight, and I’m not far from my flat. I feel at home, I’m comfortable and safe. I’m in my own little world and these are my people. We swap stories, sing songs and laugh at anything and everything. By 2am I’ve drunk myself sober. I know that sounds strange to some people, but it’s true. Sometimes you drink so much that suddenly you’re able to sit up straight and start again. I tell everyone the story of how my dad, who was a road sweeper in Stepney, knocked out a toff who wouldn’t move out of the way. The toff stood his ground and told my dad to sweep around him because he wasn’t moving. Dad put him on the ground with just one punch and then nicked his bowler hat. I’ve still got the Bowler indoors in the flat. The pub cheers and drinks to my old man. I buy a round of drinks. It’s thirty-two pounds and eighty pence. I give the barman, forty. “Keep the change or put it in the poor box!”

Again, everyone cheers.

It’s been a long day, and at 4.45 am I decide to go home. The door opens, and I’m suddenly outside in the cold, damp air. I’ve got a fifteen-minute walk home. I’m drunk but not staggering. Mr Ahmed's shop opens at 5 am. So, I wait outside. I fall asleep on the pavement.

I feel a hand shaking me. “You okay Jim?”

It’s Mr Ahmed. I get to my feet, stand up straight and then lean back against the wall of the shop. I’m on autopilot.

“Yeah, I’m great. Usual, please.”

He just smiles, puts my paper on the counter and then disappears to the back of the shop to get my six cans of beer. I start to empty my pockets to find the cash. Mr Ahmed stops me.

“We’ll sort it out later Jim. You go home and get some rest.”

He’s a good man is Mr Ahmed.

Five minutes later, I’m indoors and sipping on a can of beer. There’s fuck all on the TV at this time of the morning, I can feel my eyes beginning to shut and in my head I hear a voice. It’s Sarah. “Be careful Jim, be careful.”

I don’t have dreams, or at least I don’t remember them, but when I do, it’s always the same. Sarah is there and she’s smiling. She’s holding something in her arms. It’s wrapped in a blanket, and I lean in to take a look. I always wake up before I see what it is. But I know.

I pass out.