My Brother's Keeper

My Brother's Keeper

Ed Bruce (c) 2001

I'm seated on a worn out armchair. Across from me Rab McGee sits on
his bed shouting abuse. With his long, thinning hair and staring eyes
he looks insane. "What are you looking at you bastard?"

I shake my head sadly, aware that his glazed eyes are staring beyond
me at a scene that exists only in his own head. I let him rant on. "You
want a fight do you? C'mon then. I can handle bastards like you!"

Like me, Rab is an alcoholic. I've known him since we were kids at the
orphanage school. Every five years or so I track him down and we go out
and get pissed. But not this time; I've been dry for six months. My
friend respects that.

He's wearing my suit, the one he borrowed years ago. It badly needs
cleaning; so does the bedsit, and Rab needs a detox, desperately. I
feel guilty and helpless because I know what he's going through.

I've been here all day. I know there's four cans of Special Brew and a
half bottle of Bells in the cupboard but he's only had two cans since I
arrived - when I went out for the fish suppers. I doubt he's been this
sober in weeks, months even. Yet his speech is constantly slurred; it's
called wet brain.

When he's not hallucinating he keeps looking at me and saying "Christ,
this is unbelievable!" Then "Hey! D'you remember when we..." and goes
on to recall an incident from the past that has gained in notoriety. In
Rab's memory even the bad times were good.

I suggest the Sally Army Detoxification Unit, but his eyes dart in the
direction of the booze cupboard. Maybe I don't sound too convincing
because I'm still fighting off the desire to drink and I'm missing the
buzz. I tell him I don't miss the hangovers and I feel fit again.

His gesture says "Been there. Done that." Slouching towards the
cupboard, he holds the chair-back for support. I close my eyes and
think of better days.

Aberlour Orphanage had its own farm, gardens and school; even its own
church. They placed Rab in a special B class, which stigmatised him
from the day he was admitted. Later he worked in the gardens and lodged
with my parents who were employed at the home. We were both members of
the pipe band and Rab was proud of his late father who had been a drum
major. His mother visited often. She called him Bobbie.

I started drinking because of my father. His staunchly religious
convictions were tested when I was employed as a clerk at a local
distillery. Because my job entailed logging the contents of casks in
the filling store, the odour of freshly made whisky pervaded my
clothes, so I was subjected to nightly lectures on temperance. At
sixteen, having decided to justify my father's distrust, I became a
regular in the workers' daily queue for a dram. The spirit, at 120
proof, left me breathless, but I was soon savouring the feeling of
well-being it engendered, if not the flavour. Eventually I was
receiving a regular supply of twelve-year-old malt from both the
Customs &; Excise Officer and the manager, to give to my father. He
never smelt it!

My first experience of class distinction was the villagers' dislike of
anyone from the orphanage. So, having persuaded Rab to follow my lead,
each Saturday would see us heading for Elgin, fifteen miles away, where
we could have a good time without feeling ostracised. At seventeen we
were competent drinkers and big enough to get into pubs and play darts
for a beer. Sure we threw up occasionally on the bus journey home, but
the downside was nothing compared to the highs.

Rab outgrew his gardening job and was sent to work in the coalmines of
Fife where I joined him eventually and we shared lodgings and our first
significant experiences of girls.

Maybe because I became bored with my job or far too fond of my
girlfriend Nancy, or perhaps I drank too much one night and made a
hasty decision - probably the latter - I ran off to Glasgow alone and
back into the whisky trade. Soon afterwards, Rab recovered from a binge
to find he had joined the army. They posted him to Cyprus and I would
send him bottles of Scotch buried in loaves of bread. He told me he
boxed for his regiment at light-heavyweight until they realised what he
was drinking between rounds. The army decided they couldn't handle the
island's troubles and Rab as well. They gave him a dishonourable
discharge and flew him to London.

For a while we worked in the Mars factory, sharing a flat in Slough.
Then we went to Jersey and got carried away with the cheap drink and
relaxed licensing laws. I know we had some very enjoyable weekends
there, because my friend still recalls them in detail.

When you're an alcoholic you become convinced that there's something
weird about non-drinkers. Rab had long since reached the stage where
booze dominated his life whereas I still needed something more. My
marriage in Jersey lasted a year during which time Rab had once again
been led astray and was deported from the island.

My mate is sweating now and trembling. For the first time I become
aware of how skinny he has become; how his cheekbones protrude. He
gulps down about a gill of Bells and pushes the bottle towards me,
absently. Blue scars stand out on his pale skin, a testimony to
countless drunken brawls, some fresh since our last meeting. But his
complexion is visibly changing for the better and a smile is forming,
reminding me of my own silly expression in photos from bygone years and
how much of Rab's wasted life is down to me.

There's a mouth organ on the bedside table. It's a well-worn Hohner
with a key-change button. I wipe the mouthpiece on my jeans and whack
it a few times on my palm. Then I play the theme from Shane and his
eyes light up as he leans forward to grab the dirty knife and fork. Our
eyes meet, smiling, as I launch into Scotland the Brave, Highland
Laddie and Black Bear; Rab keeping time with the cutlery on the soiled
plate and the empty beer cans. When I run out of puff and pipe tunes,
he sits up proudly and I'm reminded of how he looked in uniform,
marching with the big drum, twirling the sticks recklessly.

In the years that followed I married again but continued to move from
place to place. An alcoholic can convince himself that all he needs is
a break, when everyone else knows that he can't afford to feed both his
family and his habit.

Once, as a long-distance lorry driver, I night-stopped in Slough. Rab
was hard to track down as he had changed his name following a tragic
street fight while living rough in London. He was working as a dustman
and had moved in with a widow who lived next to a pub. I was happy for
him and we celebrated in the time-honoured fashion. But I was finding
hangovers harder to deal with.

Next time I had guilt feelings about my mate I was a single parent
living in London with my son, earning a living driving busses. It was
in the summer and I cycled to Slough and checked out the British Legion
Club. He now shared a council flat with a work mate who told me he
sometimes preferred to wander off and sleep rough for a few nights at a
time. Although we drank heavily until the early hours, this time we
were both just going through the motions. The spark was no longer
there; the alcohol was no longer working for us, and my kidneys
ached.

Soon afterwards I was admitted to the Salvation Army Detoxification
Unit at their hostel in Whitechapel Road, following a weekend of solo
drinking. Thanks to the credit card companies I was able to go out in
style, drinking twelve-year-old Macallan.

After my second visit I volunteered for a residential rehabilitation
course. I knew then that my next drink would be my last.

We both stand up and embrace for a long time. I feel his skeletal body
shake and I know he's crying too. Because I'm sober, I'm aware of his
body odour and the pungent smell of the alcohol. I feel like a traitor;
a man who's joined another culture and religion.

When he sits down again I find an envelope and scribble my address and
phone number on it. He's wearing that hurt expression that I remember
so well. I shake his hand one last time.

"I can't help you on this one Rab - it's your decision."

And I can't give him what he needs most - the will to live.