When a Swifty Turns into a Session (1)

A car alarm was going off. They usually stopped after six or seven beeps but not this one. Pete put the pillow over his head to smother the noise. Suffocate the hangover. The worries about the night before. What was in store for him today.

“Bastard sound,” he snorted.

Why bother with an alarm on a car? Nobody took a blind bit of notice when they went off. Same with houses. Thieves probably thought of the beerp-beerp-beerp as background music, a merry accompaniment, like the mindless pop played in shopping centres, the cocktail jazz when put in a queue on the phone and having to wait 24-hours to-a-week-to-a-month-to-a-year for a real voice because greedy corporations didn’t want to pay for humans anymore: Please go online or download our App.

Fuck sake.

The sound stopped.

He moved the pillow and rolled on his back. Life goes on, or so it seemed. He was in the spare room. Wearing the shirt from last night and he could feel his socks were on and tight against his swollen ankles, but his testicles hung free—boxers nowhere to be seen.

He had gone for a couple of pints after work with Samantha and a few others. Nothing to worry about. Celebrating the completion of another week. A swifty. That’s what he called going for a quick, sociable pint. Said he needed to be home sharpish. He was going to watch a film with Mandy. She was making dinner. The plan was two pints – it was never one – and then off to Waterloo and the train back for a romantic night in.

Easy-peasy.

He saw the 30 missed calls on his phone. The unopened text messages.

His mouth was dry. A dead rat rotted in his skull.

There were bottles of cider in the fridge downstairs. Beaded with icy coldness. Those bad boys would soften the edges alright. Only Mandy mustn’t see him. It wouldn’t go down well, her coming into the kitchen with him glugging on a bottle of alcoholic apple juice for breakfast.

He read the messages.

So long as it’s only a pint and you’re home soon. Can’t wait to see you tonight. I’ve set the table. Love you. xxx

Sure. Love you. Can’t wait. x

Five hours later: I’ve never met anyone as selfish as you.

Eight hours: I’m done. This is so over.

Pete could smooth things with Mandy. They’d go for a gastro burger and chips for lunch. Have a conversation. He’d explain that it was entirely his fault and he didn’t know how things had gotten so out of hand. It was genuinely the last time.

Make a heartfelt apology.

He forced himself upright and sat on the side of the bed, flipping the duvet aside. His lungs ached from smoking cigarettes. He scanned the carpet for his boxers but couldn’t see them. Ditto trousers. All he could find was a pair of padded Lycra cycling shorts in a drawer that were way too tight for him. He needed to go on a diet. Start doing some exercise. Cutback on the pints and the takeaways. Work didn’t help. It encouraged people to be tubby bastards. Chained to a desk. Staring at a screen. Trapped in the abject dumb-fuckery of it all.

He saw a stain on the bedsheet.

Oh, no, no, no.

He leaned closer. It must be blood. He started checking himself for cuts and gashes. Only the streak was more brown than red. He sniffed. Surely not. A giant skid-mark. More like a tyre track from a monster truck. He must’ve been within a whisker of soiling himself. He let out a whimper, saddened by the prospect of having to wash the sheet and dry it today when he felt so rancid. Mandy’s mum was coming to stay with them tomorrow and neither of them would be happy about a shite-stained bed.

“I don’t need this.”

He put the duvet back, feeling dizzy and nauseous. He rarely vomited from booze. His body was accustomed to the pints, wine, G&Ts and tequila. He did need a piss and this was a problem. Flushing the loo would awaken Mandy and it was better for him that she stayed sleeping. He could avoid her wrath and retribution for a while longer. Not have to explain to her about arriving home in the early hours. The interrogation: Why did you ignore my calls and messages? Why do you keep doing this? Who were you with? Was it Samantha? Are you having an affair? Where were you?

Stop shouting, Mandy.  

He tip-toed by their bedroom and checked the lounge. She was definitely still asleep, which was a relief, a reprieve, a respite from the verbal assault that was coming for him. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge and was comforted by the sight of the bottles on the shelf. Up to that point, he was unsure whether Mandy might have poured his booze down the sink and thrown the bottles into the recycling. She’d done it before. He used an opener to jimmy the cap and poured fizzy cider into a glass and drank thirstily. Gratefully. Joyously. Feeling the pissed’ness return. It put the aches and pain and paranoia of the hangover at bay. Hair of the dog. Hair of the god more like. Supernatural powers to heal ye suffering. It was fucking beautiful. Only he needed a piss and the bathroom was out of bounds. He went to the sink, removed some pots and pans, ran the cold tap and stood on the balls of his feet to lift himself over the rim to urinate. Swigging another mouthful of cider.

Everything was going to be hunky-dory.

Birds sang outside in the garden. 

He felt wave upon wave of incredible elation. An immense gratefulness at the beauty of existence. The jubilation pulsated through his body and almost took his breath away. This was religious ecstasy. New born babies. Wedding bells. Synchronised orgasms. The bass drums of Beethoven and Shostakovich. Hendrix’s guitar solos. And the birds—the birdsong. It all showed the glory of the universe—the stars in the sky and the disc of the moon and the fiery ball of the sun rising, falling, rising, falling, and Pete, right here, on the orbiting earth, a dot in the awesome grandeur of eternity, watching yellow liquid arc into a sink with water running from the tap and him drinking cider from a glass.

Fucking majestic. That’s what it was. 

He tried not to drip on the cupboard door and lino.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Eh? Mandy—nothing.”

She stood in the kitchen doorway in her navy nighty, arms folded. Her eyes puffy from crying. At least she cared. That had to be a positive sign. A reason for encouragement. He knew he could explain himself. Tell her what she needed to hear. Put his side of the story across. Go for a gastro burger and chunky chips when the pubs opened. Eat lunch together. Try and get her to believe that going for a walk and some grub was about the two of them and not him necking more pints.

“You’re using our sink as a urinal?”

“No. Don’t be daft.”

“And you’re drinking.”

“Come on, Mandy. I’m sorry about what happened last night.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I really didn’t mean to slay out late.”

“You’re slurring.”

“I’m not.”

She looked to the cooker and cupboards—away from him. “You’re cheating on me.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Stop with the lying.”

“But I’m not. I’m not. I went for a few drinks on a Friday after work. I was really looking forward to us having a meal and watching a film together and I’m sorry about what I did. It wasn’t supposed to turn from a swifty into a full-on session…”

“I’m so sick and tired of your bullshit,” she said. “The constant lying.” 

“But I’m telling you the truth.”

She walked to the backdoor and opened it and pointed to his trousers and boxer shorts on the garden path. “You see that?” she said. “Do you see the state of them?”

He stood next to her in the doorway.

“You’d shat yourself. That’s how drunk you were. Check your messages on your phone. You’re texting me thinking it’s her—Samantha. You need to pack your bags, Peter. Today. We’re done. For real this time.”

“You know I love you.”

“Oh, seriously,” she shouted, losing her self-control. “You’re an alcoholic and you won’t get help and I can’t be dealing with this anymore. It’s too much.” She gestured in repulsion at his filth-ridden clothes.

“I’m not an alcoholic. I just like a drink but I don’t drink every day.”

She went to a cupboard and started smashing mugs and glasses on the floor by his feet.

“GET-OUT-GET-OUT-GET-OUT.”

Pete watched the shards and fragment of ceramic and glass explode around each foot. He still had his socks on. He wanted to open a bottle of cider and top himself up. If he did, it would give credence to Mandy’s outlandish theory that he was an alkie. There would be undeniable consequences to his filling up this particular glass at this moment in time. It was imbued with significance. Cause and effect. She was crying and telling him to leave this instant, to stop inflicting pain and suffering on her through his selfishness. It was a shame that she couldn’t see his qualities. That he was in fact a decent person. That he did care for her and wanted them to stay together. If she gave him a chance, he could change, be a better man. They had chemistry as a couple. She continued to scream for him to pack his bags only he was afraid to move as he might cut his feet to pieces given the floor was a minefield of jagged fragments. She shrieked that he must go, throwing a giant Sports Direct mug onto the floor. He hated that mug and it was sod’s law that somehow it didn’t break. He wondered if she would be more receptive to his claims that he was a credible human being, that he loved and respected her, if he wasn’t standing there in a creased shirt and ultra tight cycling shorts.

She hurried into the hallway and shut the bedroom door.

Pete tip-toed across the lino and opened the fridge. He removed the last two bottles and took them with an opener to the spare room. He sat on the side of the single bed and drank from his glass. Re-reading the messages, he properly processed that he had sent a couple of them to the wrong person.

No wonder Mandy was giving him his marching orders.

Fuck sake.

He showered. Stuffed clothes into a sportsbag and a cabin case he had bought when they went on a weekend break to Prague. The short holiday was much more expensive than they realised when booking the so-called budget flight.

None of those memories mattered anymore.

This was it.

The end.

She didn’t want to go for a burger and chips – gastro or otherwise – and talk through his behaviour. Three-and-a-half-years down the drain. They had split up before but this was different. There was extra substance to her sadness, the tone of her voice, the weight of her words. And maybe it was the drinking. The cheating. Lying. Alright, alright. Don’t rub it in. Fuck sake. He left his keys on the small table in the hallway. The one he was always knocking over. It hurt being outside in the daylight. The violence of sunshine. He didn’t even like the girl he was seeing, Samantha. That was the funny thing. She was a stick thin yoga obsessed vegan who bored him to tears. But so did watching films with Mandy. He was better off by himself. Sort of. A loner. Moody. People didn’t know how to take him. That’d always been his trouble. He caught a whiff of booze from his own skin. A sledgehammer of a headache was coming on. He needed to phone his mum. Explain the situation. She wouldn’t be too happy. She couldn’t stand him either. Always wanted a girl, not a boy. Fuck sake. He craved a pint. Some fags too. Collect his thoughts. Delay that sledgehammer blow. The decaying of the deceased rodent in his skull. Away from the sunbeams. He passed rows of parked cars. Felt the anger inside him. Coursing. There was a pub round the corner. That’d do. One step at a time. He saw a loose brick in a wall and wiggled it free. He went up to a Range Rover and pummelled the brick into the window on the driver’s side. It felt good, hearing the glass break. The alarm went off. Beerp-beerp-beerp. “How’d you like that? You bastards!” And he went to a Mazda and did the same. Then the windshield of a Mercedes. And he strolled along the street, hearing the concert of alarms—the majesty of it.

Twats appearing in the doorways of houses.

He looked around and acted like he was puzzled by the noise too.

Casually dropping the brick, he headed to the boozer for a swifty.

 

(Part II here: https://www.abctales.com/story/mark-burrow/eternal-quest-decent-pint-2)