I couldn’t sleep, spent the night reading The Legend of the Holy Drinker. Its author, Joseph Roth, a chronic alcoholic who drank himself to death in Paris at the age of forty-four.
I’d always loved this book, even before I was a drinker, never a holy one. It’s about a jakey called Andreas who hits on, the worst of things for any drinker, a run of luck.
In the translator’s note at the back of my edition it reads: ‘It is clear that Roth for some time had been running out of reasons to remain alive.’
When a line like this strikes a chord, you know you’re in trouble.
I read on: ‘He advanced a sophisticated argument that while drink shortened his life in the medium term, in the short term it kept him alive — and he worked hard at testing its logic.’
Lately, I’d been crippled by hangovers. Time was, when I could wake up the next day, shake off the night before and start again. Now, only one word described the way I felt: deteriorated.
Heard John Lennon doing ‘Living on borrowed time… without a thought to tomorrow.’
Phone went.
I sat up in bed, answered before checking the caller ID.
‘Hello, Gus.’
Shocked.
‘Mam… hello.’
Her voice sounded weaker than ever, she sounded frail. ‘I know you’re very busy, son, but I had to call. I’m sorry to disturb you again.’
Her words sent my heart into spasm. ‘No, Mam, don’t apologise, I’ve been meaning to call, I have.’ It was a lie, but I’d got used to those recently.
‘I know Catherine told you about-’
‘Is he no better, Mam?’
‘Oh, Gus…’
‘Mam?’
A groan, actual pain. ‘Gus, he won’t last another day, the doctor says it’s a miracle he’s still with us. Oh, son, he’s holding on for you, he’s holding on for your visit. If you would only… Oh, Gus. Oh son…’
‘Mam, please.’
‘I know, I’ve no right to ask. I’m sorry.’
‘Mam.’
‘No. I shouldn’t have called. You have your reasons. I’m sorry, son. I’ll leave you be.’
‘Mam, I’ll come. Tell him I’ll come.’ Had I said this? Had I ever. Where was my head at?
I dressed in black cords, nearing on grey at the knees. I looked for a white shirt, had to settle for a white T-shirt. Topped the look off with a navy lambswool V-neck. I’d been reckless with the washing instructions and the jumper had tightened round the shoulders. I pulled at the neck, heard a tear.
‘Och, Christ on a crutch!’
The neckband came away in my hand. I tossed it, put on a red Pringle instead. It fitted like a dream, no substitute for quality.
I pulled on my Docs, checked myself in the mirror. ‘Bit like a schemie golfer, Gus.’
Still, would have to do. Clothes supply running low.
In the kitchen I tried to make some coffee but my hands shook out of control. I clanged the spoon in the sink and went to the fridge. Hod kept some Grolsch in reserve, the heavy bottles made fashionable by soccer casuals. Along with sharpened umbrella points, the bottles once made for a perfect concealed weapon. The Grolsch hit the spot. I shotgunned two bottles. The shakes subsided, but I felt a long way from medicated.
Hod looked out for the count as I left. I tucked the Glock in my waistband, Milo’s ashes under my arm.
I strolled along Portobello beach, hoping inspiration would strike. My head throbbed with troubles or was that just the sauce calling? Talking to my old man after all this time wouldn’t be easy. I knew I was prepared to do it for my mother. She’d borne the brunt of his torture over the years, after all that, how could I refuse her?
‘Jesus, Mam — why didn’t you get out?’ I muttered.
If only she’d taken the steps to free herself from him, she might have found a life. For her though, it just wasn’t the done thing. I never understood it; was it a generational thing? No woman would put up with it nowadays. Deborah certainly needed a lot less provocation to leave me.
‘Bollocks!’ I walked off a sand-bar, sank up to my ankles in sea water. ‘This is all I need.’
I left the beach. Too close to nature for this city boy. I had thought it might be the place to spread Milo’s ashes, but I was wrong. They must be returned to Ireland, I thought. It’s what Milo would have wanted. God, it felt painful to think about him, and how he got mixed up in all of this. I knew it would for ever be one of the deepest hurts of my sorry existence.
First newsagent’s I hit, I asked the shopkeeper for a carrier, placed the box of ashes carefully inside.
‘Twenty Regal as well, please,’ I said.
I lit up — one after the other — until I found myself two streets from my family home. As I reached it, the place that held so much hurt for every one of us, I drew deep on my cigarette, then crushed it soundly underfoot.
My sister stood at the window, tucked behind the twitching net curtains.
‘Hello, Gus,’ she said as I walked through the door.
My soul screamed as I went in. Every fibre of my being begged for alcohol.
‘Can I take your coat?’ said Cathy.
‘Yes. Oh, and can you put this away?’ I handed over Milo’s ashes.
‘What is it?’
‘An old friend. Take care with it, please.’
She placed the carrier on the top shelf of the hallstand, waved me into the living room. I stood in the doorway for a moment, my palms gathering sweat.
‘Angus,’ called out my mother. She stood up, held out her arms.
‘Hello, Mam… How are you?’
She held my face in her hands, placed a kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re as white as a maggot!’
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘When did you last have a square meal, son?’
‘I’m okay, Mam. There’s no need to fuss.’
‘Sit yourself down. I’ll make you something to eat. What would you like?’
‘Nothing, I’m not hungry.’
‘Nonsense, you’ll take a sandwich.’
I shook my head. ‘Mam, I’m here to see… Dad.’ The word caught in my throat like a razorblade.
My mother sat back down. ‘Of course. You’ll want to see him as soon as you can.’
What I really wanted was to turn around and walk out. Wait for the funeral, dance on his grave. Said, ‘Sure.’
She stood up again, smoothed down the sides of her skirt, then patted at her hair. ‘I’ll see if he’s ready. The doctor’s given him something to make him sleep, but he may be awake again now.’
‘All right.’
She left the room. On the stairs, she turned. ‘He’s been asking for you day and night, son — you know that, don’t you?’
I looked up. ‘Yes, Mam, I know.’