The Life Of Jim ( Part 7) Final.

I wake up, no, that’s not true, I regain consciousness and open my eyes. I hear the sound of gunfire and voices. Nothing unusual where I live, so I don’t panic. It’s coming from the TV, some channel is showing an old Western, I must have left it on when I passed out. Most of yesterday is a blur, but I do remember going to Ronnie's pub and then to Bumdaddies. However, I don't recall leaving or how I got home. I’m surprised to see today's newspaper on my lap and four unopened cans of beer on the table. I don’t remember going to Mr Ahmed's, but unless he now does home delivery, I guess I must have gone there on the way home.

I reach forward to get a can, but as I do, I feel a deep pain in my right side. It makes me wince, and for a moment, I shout out in pain. I sit back down, and suddenly I’m sweating, and I can feel my bowels begging me to open them up. I run to the bathroom, pull down my pants, thankful that I made it in time. Must have been something I ate or a dodgy pint. I sit there for ages, every time I think I’ve finished, it starts again. Maybe not just one pint, might have been a few. I’ll have to have words with George at Bumdaddies, he’s not been cleaning his pipes again. I finish and make the mistake of looking behind me. I wish I hadn’t. It looks like someone has thrown a can of tomatoes into the pan. I wipe, same thing. Not good, maybe I should go to the doctors? Fuck that. He’ll just tell me what I already know. Change your lifestyle, cut down on the booze and start eating properly. No chance, I’m a drunk, how can I do that?

My phone rings. It’s Ronny, from the pub. I have a vague recollection of him putting me in a cab. He speaks.

“Hi mate, how you doing?”

I’m in pain, but I front it out.

“I’m up, Ron and ready to face the day. You okay?”

He laughs.

“Me? Yeah I’m good. Just wanted to make sure you got home okay.and to let you know we raised two hundred and seventy quid for Brenda last night.”

I’m lost for words. That’s a lot of money. I pause and then have a thought.

“Listen mate. How about we don’t spunk it all on flowers and shit. How about after the funeral, you put it behind the bar and we have a piss up for everyone. I think she would have liked that.”

Ronny agrees.

“Sounds good, mate. Let me know the details, and I’ll do some sandwiches.”

“Cheers Ron.”

I sit back on the sofa and open a can of beer. After a few gulps the pain eases up I can feel my heart rate begin to drop. I take a look at the dish on the table. Keys and some notes, but not many. I count it. Twenty-two pounds and thirty-nine pence. It’s not much, but it’s enough for a day's drinking. If you know what you're doing. And I certainly know.

I stagger back into the bathroom and turn on the shower, for some reason I’m hoping that it takes away the pain. It doesn’t. But I get dressed and wander down to the Wetherspoons. The barman is sporting a large plaster on his head and has a bruised cheek. I want to, but I don’t mention it. I know he wasn’t here yesterday and simply go with the plan. He comes over and gives me a look. A look that says “What the fuck do you want?”

I smile.

“Hi mate, I was here yesterday and had a horrible experience with a pint that the barman poured me. I threw up. But he’s probably told you that already?”

He looks at me and frowns.

“No!”

I take no notice.

“I had to leave because I was so ill. He wouldn’t give me my money back but promised me a couple of free pints today. Okay?”

He looks confused. Then says, “I’ve got no instructions to give you free beer.”

At the end of the bar is Lenny. I call out to him.

“Lenny, wasn’t I ill yesterday and was promised free beer today?”

Lenny has no idea what I’m talking about, but he’s a professional.

“Yeah, that’s right. Absolutely right.”

The barman pulls a face. But goes away and pours two pints.

“Right, that’s it. But if I find out that you're having me over, you’ll be barred.”

I walk up to Lenny and hand him a pint.

“Cheers mate.” We laugh, and just for a moment, the pain disappears. I down my pint quickly and look at Lenny.

“Any chance? Or are you skint? Don’t forget you owe me a pint from the other day.”

I shouldn’t have asked because I already know the answer. Lenny is always skint.

“Sorry mate, just got a couple of quid myself, was hoping to bum a few beers today.”

He looks pitiful, so I pat him on the back as I leave.

“No worries, mate. See you soon.”

It’s time to have an easy day. I stop at Mr Ahmed's to buy a bottle of his cheapest whiskey. When I enter the shop, he’s pleased to see me.

“Jim, good to see you. Feeling better? You looked a bit…TIRED, this morning.”

He smiles as he says the word tired.

“It’d been a long day, Mr Ahmed, hope I wasn’t too …TIRED.”

“You were good Jim, but you didn’t pay for your usual. You owe six pounds and thirty-eight pence.”

Mr Ahmed doesn’t lie, so I trust his word.

“No problem, and give me a bottle of your finest, cheapest whiskey.”

He laughs and hands me the bottle. I empty my pockets and pay him what I owe.

Walking back to the flat, the pain comes back. Slow at first and then more intense. By the time I open the front door, I can hardly stand. I slump onto the sofa. Twist the cap off the bottle and take a long glug of the gut rot. They say alcohol kills everything, especially people. I don’t believe in painkillers or any fucking tablets. I’m confident that whiskey will do the trick. And it does, but only for a few minutes and then it’s back. This time I feel as though I’m being stabbed in my side over and over again. I feel myself slipping from the sofa. But I manage to cling to the bottle and take another swig. There must be a storm coming because the room is getting darker.

And then she’s there. My Sarah, and beside her is a young man with the face of an angel. It’s my boy. Not dead and wrapped in a blanket, but alive and in his prime. I open up my arms to embrace them both. It’s been a long time, but I’m ready.

 

Jim Sutton died on August 27, 2024, aged fifty-two. Twenty-one years earlier, his wife, Sarah, committed suicide by throwing herself under a train at Whitechapel Station. She had been suffering from Post Natal Depression. Their son had been delivered stillborn after forty weeks.