Three's Up

First.
Cupid's Arrow

6

Second.
The Morning After The Night Before

20

Third.
George's Plight

35

Cupid's Arrow

“Christ, I’m so sorry Casey, he’s never usually like this. I can’t understand what’s gotten into him. Jezzer, come away!"

Amanda frantically tried to pry Jezzer off of Casey’s leg, it was no use. A juggernaut wouldn’t be able to pull the pitbull in the opposite direction at this moment in time. The creature panted and salivated as it bucked and ground at calf level, hooking its claws into Casey’s denim to gain purchase. The other party guests looked on in horror and amazement as the dog’s intensity crescendoed…and then, it was over.

The dog dismounted and casually sniffed Casey’s shoes, his anatomy still unsheathed. He turned to face the astonished guests and froze, with one limp paw hanging in mid-air. It was only the distant rush of bubbles bursting in the cheap champagne that broke the hundredweight silence. No one dared to so much as draw a breath.


Jezzer wagged his stumpy tail and took a step towards his attentive audience, who, out of fear of being next in the queue, launched themselves onto each other’s laps, sending drinks flying. Jezzer stopped once more, tilted his head in calculation, and then turned and left the room.

A gentle breeze swam through the air as a dozen chests relaxed, only to be replaced once more by the all-consuming silence and an atmosphere so thick, you could dig it with a spoon. All eyes hit different corners of the room with the embarrassment of finding themselves on each other’s laps. Their respective stares navigated their ways along ceilings, down walls, across carpets and met at Casey’s jeans. It looked as though a herd of rather large snails had stampeded down the length of his shin.

“I - err - I’ll get you a cloth.”

Amanda didn’t so much as break the silence, just dispersed it momentarily, only for it to regroup as she left the room. Casey’s head hung mournfully. He could feel the intensity of their accumulated stares burning him as he stood exposed and violated before the room.

Out of all the eyes, only two of them mattered. Sarah Harding’s.

For Casey, tonight held so much promise. Tonight was going to be the night that Sarah not only discovered that Casey existed, but that she was inconsolably in love with him as he was she. Instead, the best-laid plans of mice and men were running down the inside of his shoe. She knew he existed now, all right. It’s hard to forget someone who was publicly raped by a family pet.

“Castration.” A woman finally shattered the oppressive silence, “That’d calm ‘im down.”

“Calm ‘im down?” Replied another guest, “By lopping his balls off? Who’d be calmed down by that? To be honest, I’d be decisively uncalm

. I’d be running up the walls and biting vicars until they sewed the bastards back on!”


And so the hubbub of the party grew once more, and the world moved on. All except for Sarah, who remained planted to the spot holding an expression taut with horror and disgust. Casey knew his best chance was spent, he just hoped that Jezzer was too.

***

Skipping back to that morning, Casey’s bus squirmed along with the rush hour traffic. Its industrial engine shook his take-away coffee violently as he leant against the back of the driver’s booth.

“I don’t know what it is,” conceded Casey, “Something just happens whenever I see her.”

“What, in the trouser department? Don’t tell me you never had the talk

Casey. An erection is a perfectly normal thing, although it can be an inconvenience at times…”

“Not like that Jason.”

“…come to think of it, it does all kind of look like it’s just been stuck on as an afterthought.” Jason, the bus driver, spent about as much time looking underneath his own toenails as he did at the road, “Like, God made Adam and Eve and said, ‘I can’t be doing this two billion more times. Bollocks to it, they can do it ‘emselves.’”

“I’m being serious.”

“He must’ve been in a rush an’ all. Them girls’ bits are about as well thought out as a holiday in Baghdad. I mean, you’d have less hassle wiring a satellite than making sense of all that.”

“Have you finished?”

Casey nervously checked over his shoulder as he noticed the old ladies in earshot fiddling with their hearing-aids and starting to fidget.

“I can see why God tucked it all away though. I mean, if I’d created something that

ugly, I wouldn’t flaunt it about the place. Did he have, like, an abundance of elf ears and think ‘oh well, these’ll have to do?’”

Jason looked out of his driver’s window thoughtfully, pondering his own creation theory. If there were an artist’s impression of his thought pattern, it’d scarily resemble a demolition derby. Casey knew Jason well enough to seize the silence.

“Look, I don’t know what it is but whenever I see her, it’s like my blood turns to acid and burns the inside of my veins. It feels like I’m allergic to my own body and I want to leap out of myself. Some people call it obsession, some people call it infatuation...”

“That one person called the police when you stood outside her house all night.”

The old lady in the seat directly behind them cleared her throat; Casey spoke into her disapproving eyes.

“It wasn’t all night.” Sensing the growing attention creeping his way, he leant into Jason and lowered his voice, “What I’m trying to say is that I know it’s love. I am completely and utterly in love with Sarah Harding. The problem is, she doesn’t even know I’m alive.”

“She must know you exist mate, what about all those chocolates and roses you’ve been sending her over the last three years?”

“Well, I’ve got to work with her y’see. I mean, what if she weren’t interested? I’d have to find a new job, wouldn’t I?”

“You sent them anonymously, didn’t you?”

Casey scratched the back of his head, his silence was reply enough. He scanned the bus, catching the other passengers’ gazes before they managed to snap their heads back downwards, feigning ignorance. He swore he heard, “idiot” from somewhere toward the back. He spoke to the bus as a whole.

“I hoped she’d do the maths.”

“That’s not maths, Casey. That’s some weird, psychic, I-speak-to-dead-people ability.”


Casey took a long swig of coffee; the polystyrene cup covered his blushing cheeks. An old man, two rows from the front leant forward and spoke in an extremely public whisper.

“Psssst. Lad. Have you tried Rohypnol?”

He gave Casey a knowing wink, as if to share the conspiracy. The women in close proximity to the old man suddenly didn’t want to be.

“Rohypnol? You mean date rape? Yeah, why don’t I just whack her ‘round the back of the head with a frying pan and cart her off over my shoulder?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders and turned, noticing the murderous looks being shot his way. An old lady leant forward and tapped Casey’s waist.

“D’you have a frying pan, love?”

“I’m not whacking her ‘round the head and carting her off over my shoulder! Now will you all, please, just mind your own business?”

The bus was swallowed by an awkward silence, for about five seconds anyway, before Jason piped up.

“’t’s not a bad idea, mate. Drugging her, I mean.” An army of tuts marched toward the front of the bus; Jason wasn’t one to rely on people’s approval. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about anything that would knock her out. Just something that would, you know, warm her to you a bit.”

“And where am I going to find that?”

“Craig the Crooked Chemist? He’d knock you something up. Remember those special painkillers he made for my Mum’s arthritis?”

“What, you mean the ones that paralysed her for three days, and had her talking in tongues? Yeah, I remember, although it’s not really the angle I’m trying for.”

“Suit yourself.” Jason sounded disappointed, “All I’m saying is that it’s been three years, right? Well, if you don’t do anything about it, it’s going to be another three years. If you had the minerals to win her outright, it would’ve happened ages ago.”

This received murmurs of approval from Jason’s passengers. The bus finally pulled into the depot and people started to collect their belongings and queue to disembark. The women sat around the Rohypnol man stayed seated, watching him with convictive eyes, all except for one, who leapt up and planted a knee bluntly between his legs.

Casey thought he was the last passenger and went to step off the bus. A slender, yet empowering hand relaxed on his shoulder and a voice like silk and daggers all at once appeared at his ear in a thick West Indies accent.

“Tell me boy, you love this woman true?”

Casey and Jason jumped as she spoke, neither of them noticed her before now. Casey turned and was almost sucked onto tiptoes by the woman’s absorbingly dark eyes.

“I…who are you?”

“Do you love her mind, body and soul?”


“Yeah, with emphasis on the body

.” Jason had a way of spoiling moments as he mimicked breasts with his hands. “’ere I don’t remember selling you a ticket…”

“Yes, I do love her.”

Casey interrupted his friend, something screamed inside of him not to let this moment pass by. The mysterious woman reached into an exotic purse, her hand reappeared holding a small translucent phial, containing a glowing green liquid.

“Take this, boy. Two drops into the drink of the woman you love and she will be yours for all of this life. But be warned, it cannot be undone.”

“What is it?”

Casey twirled the bottle in the light; the liquid glistened like a million tiny crystals. Jason leant over his shoulder, reaching out in an attempt to look with his hands.


“Call it Cupid’s Arrow if you will, but be sure it is you who gives her the potion, otherwise it will be they who own her heart.”

The mysterious woman placed a hand on Casey’s cheek momentarily, before turning and exiting the bus. Never one to miss a trick, Jason jumped the three steps and ran out after her.

“’ere, love. I don’t suppose you’ve got any, like, super-strength viagra in there, have you?”

Casey stood for a moment, rooted to the spot, completely hypnotised by his own destiny, which sat in his palm.

***

With a trembling hand, Casey covertly removed the miniature bottle from his jeans. He removed the bung and allowed two drops to spill into the red wine, and then two more for good measure. He drew a nerve-steadying breath and took up in his clammy hand, the rest of his life.

He trafficked the spiked drink to the lounge; Sarah beamed the smile that Casey had dreamt about for the last three years. She raised an arm to accept the drink…

A tennis ball bounced playfully into the core of the party, followed by a leaping pitbull, who rearranged his paws into the back-peddle that dogs use to skid clumsily to a halt. Unfortunately, the clumsy halt didn’t come soon enough. Jezzer clattered into the back of Casey’s legs. The wine jumped out of the glass as Casey threw up his right arm in a knee-jerk reaction.

All eyes watched Casey’s destiny fly high up into the air...

...and then down…

…and then splash over Jezzer’s head. The dog licked his chops, then sniffed and licked the fresh claret stains that were rapidly soaking into the carpet.

There was no explosion, no plumes of smoke jetting from his ears. Just a deathly silence…

…and then his tail began to wag. Slowly at first, then faster…

...Jezzer lunged

.

***

“I - err - I’ll get you a cloth.”

***

Casey desperately held back the tears as he sponged Jezzer’s contribution off the front of his trousers. His ears pricked as he heard a calamitous scrambling in the hallway. The lounge door burst open.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, not again!”

END

The Morning After The Night Before

Jack ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth as he opened his eyes. It felt like he’d licked the terminal of a battery, or at least drank the bottom of a pickled onion jar. These two analogies proved to be wrong as he forced up his waist and pulled from beneath it an empty Gin bottle. He tossed it aside and let his head relax back, closing his eyes again. A marching band was mid parade somewhere between his ears, there was a perpetual gushing and…and…water?

He sat up with a jolt and scanned his surroundings. A bathroom. Someone’s bathroom. There were bare floorboards submerged beneath an inch of water, his back was drenched from the night’s unconsciousness. A rubber duck spiralled past him as it drifted with the flood’s flow, stopping as the water slipped beneath the gap at the foot of the door. He strained his bleary eyes, desperately trying to make sense of where he was.

Now, your average person has watched enough films to know that if a murderer is in your house, you hide in the attic, or corner yourself in some other cul-de-sac of a room; if you wake up in a strange place, you say (if only for dramatic effect):

“Where am I?”

“I think we might be dead…”

Jack jumped at the shock reply, and traced it to an overflowing bathtub; a wall of water was tumbling over the side as the taps still pumped at full speed, he rushed toward them with a belated haste. Water was still piling overboard as a hairy arm reached out. Jack took hold, and fished out what appeared to be a very unconvincing transvestite.

“…Or a least I

am anyway. This is my wife’s corset.” He struggled a hand into his leather hotpants and with the care of a surgeon, extracted a hairbrush. He gestured it to Jack “No wonder I couldn’t feel my toes.”

Jack eyed him quizzically from his single stiletto, past the fishnet stockings, right up to his Afro wig. A cold panic burst inside of his chest.

“Oh God, tell me we didn’t…you know

?”

The transvestite reached into the bust of his wife’s corset and pulled out a box of sopping wet cigarettes. After wrecking two, he managed to get a whole, if not slightly droopy one into his mouth.

“To be honest…what’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“To be honest, Jack. If we did, you must’ve been a gentleman to help me back into these hotpants.” He tugged at the bottom of his shorts as if to gain space, “Only, I don’t think I could’ve managed on my own.”

“Well, you must have done, to…” Jack watched as his acquaintance failed to light three wet matches, “Look, I don’t even know who you are. I don’t even know where we

are and my head’s spinning round so fast, it’d have an Astronaut projectile vomitting. Oh, for God’s sake! You can see the water dripping off those matches.”


“Shhhhh, it’s alright Jack. I’ve got a lighter in ‘ere somewhere.”

He fumbled somewhere inside the corset once more; with no luck, he squeezed a hand back down the front of his hotpants. Jack studied him worriedly, a tongue flicked out the side of the cross-dresser’s mouth with concentration. His hand reappeared after a prolonged moment clutching a lighter. He held it up to Jack, looking somewhat boastful and then slightly embarrassed. He passed the lighter to his other hand and hurriedly offered the free one to Jack.

“I’m Rich by the way. Call me Richard if it makes you happy.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to the hand that was, moments ago, rummaging around a man’s crotch inside of women’s underwear and groaned. Richard withdrew the hand, wiped it on his thigh and re-offered it, pleadingly. Jack shook it tentatively. Somehow, the salvaged lighter lit first time and Richard brought the flame to the tip of the dishevelled cigarette, which fell to pieces.


"So then, Jack.” Richard took a step backwards and sat on the edge of the bath; he did a double-take behind him and fished out a can of beer from the still brimming tub. “D’ya smoke?”

“No.”

"Never?"

"Never."

"Not even after sex?"

"Look, I..."

“'Cause if you do, you go too fast my friend.” Richard bounced around on the spot momentarily in response to own his zinger, Jack didn't even flinch. Richard straightened his back, cleared his throat and attacked the ring-pull on his beer can with a crudely painted fingernail. As it opened, the froth rose from the can and ran down the side, “So seriously then, no cigarettes?”

“No! Look, stupid question, I know, but is this your house?”

Richard splashed a stockinged foot around the floor; the puddle was still disappearing through the gaps between the floorboards. He swigged his beer.

“I hope not." He smiled at Jack, "Let’s find out!”

***

The door bounced on its hinges under the strain of three rhythmatic thuds. There was silence, and then a scratching noise, followed by a muffled argument on the other side, then a shuffling. The door calmly opened inwards.

“See, I told you to pull.”

Three feet and one stiletto emerged from the bathroom and squelched onto the drenched carpet.

“I thought it was locked.”

“You said, but why would there be a key down your hotpants?”

“Everything else seems to be.”

Richard reached again into the corset and reproduced the dogged cigarette box. With a rigid hand he managed to pluck another out in one piece and offer it to his lips. It lit. He took a long drag and pulled it away from his mouth. Smoke escaped from his nose and mouth as he spoke.

“So then, Jackyboy. You don’t remember anything?”

He brought the cigarette back to his lips and took a confused drag. He inspected the filter between his fingers and looked down at the rest sizzling on the wet carpet.

“I don’t know. I have…recollections, like pieces of a jigsaw; or more like a shattered vase.” Jack looked around. Richard was on his knees, desperately trying to reassemble the soggy cigarette.

“Ha! You got it easy; at least you’re

dressed as the right gender. These shorts are as accommodating as they look.”

“You mean, that’s not your usual…I just assumed you were…” He forced a smile, “Well, you do carry it well.”


For the first time, Richard started to look agitated. He held his makeshift cigarette at both ends, which collapsed as he took another puff. He gave Jack a prolonged stare.

“That’s alright coming from you, is it? At least I haven’t got TWAT

written across my forehead in lipstick.”

“Yeah, I’m not falling for that one.”

Jack adjusted his footing on the carpet, it was saturated. The wallpaper was ripped in places, a picture hung crooked on the wall with its frame smashed. His eyes followed the trail of destruction to a bundle halfway down the stairs…it was…carpet

. Carpet, with a couple of legs sticking out the bottom, he turned to silently gesture to Richard, who was staring out the window.

“Hey Jack, I haven’t seen a single person go by. Do you think this is like one of those end-of-the-world type things, where everyone died over night an’ we’re the only survivors?”


Jack heard a car pass outside, Richard seemed somewhat disappointed. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe not.”

“Richard?”

“What?”

“Shhhhhhh.”

“Shhhhhhh, what?”

“Be quiet.”

“I can’t hear what you’re saying. Stop whispering.”

“There’s someone on the stairs.”

“Sorry?”

Jack seemed to shout without raising his voice above a whisper,

“There’s someone on the stairs!”

The two of them tiptoed to the head of the staircase and peered at the pile of human carpet. It wasn't moving. Suddenly, a pang of memory hit Jack like an electric shock. A vision pulsed across his brain: him, an extremely ugly woman…Richard...tearing up the bathroom carpet.

“Richard. What can you remember about last night?”

“Err, I think I remember you saying he looked cold…and could do with a blanket.”

The tangled body remained still, there was no rise where the chest should be, no sound. It was lifeless.

“Yeah, he’s cold alright.” Jack swallowed as the fear began to claw its way up his throat, “Dead

cold.”

“Do you think so? Should we get him another carpet?”

"With emphasis on the dead"

"Oh. Are you sure?"


“Well, he’s hardly cooking breakfast is he? He’s not breathing.” Jack and Richard stared at each other. “How did we get here?”

“Do you think he smokes?”

“Not anymore. Look, I don’t even remember meeting you. I don't...Richard, come back here!”

Richard began a covert descent down the staircase, half hunched with an arm outstretched. His buttocks didn't so much slip out the bottom of the hotpants as he crept, more performed a mass exodus…it forced some kind of memory…

“Richard. I remember!”

“Hang on.”

“I was walking home from the pub. You were being sick in an alley, bent over. I grabbed your arse…I thought you were…a hooker…even afterwards, I thought you were just a bit ugly.”

“You’re right, he ain’t movin’…”

“I was almost home, you walked with me…there was a party going on in this house, we thought we’d have a look…I still thought you were a…although the stubble was cause for concern.”

Richard was over the body now; Jack ran down the stairs and grabbed him.

“Richard…he was there! Everyone else had already gone, he was already there. It must be his house, they killed him! Richard, we’ve got to go…”

“But he might smo…”

Richard made a grab for the body, Jack made a grab for Richard; and with the combined stability of a newborn deer, they tumbled down the last two stairs. Jack, Richard, the bathroom carpet and a dead body.

The first thing the dead body saw as it jolted awake was a startlingly ugly transvestite; he screamed, Richard screamed louder, Jack scrambled himself to his feet and bolted out of the front door. The dead body kicked, frantically trying to get an extra stair between him and Richard.

“Not again! Oh please God, not again

!”

“It’s OK. Look, I’m sorry about your house. I’ll level with you, don’t go in the bathroom, not until you’ve calmed down anyway. I don’t, err, suppose you've got a spare cigarette, have you?”

***

The old man watered his garden in peace. He sniffed the fresh morning air and tuned his ears into the birdsong. There was a scream and a crash, he jumped and span around just in time to see Jack fall out of the house next door. Jack pulled himself to his feet, glanced at the old man and shouted, wimpishly:

“’e was already dead! I swear it!”

Jack got five paces down the road before he stopped suddenly. He turned on the spot and made a grab for the old man.

“Mr. Limbey? What are you doing here?”

“Jack, I…I don’t understand. What…?”

Jack turned once more and ran back into the house. He looked around frantically, at the hallway, at the stairs.

“Fuck!”

“Jack, look what I got!”

Richard flashed him a cigarette. Jack still struggled to come to terms with what was happening, he stared at the now alive dead body, who was offering a cigarette.

“I’m sorry mate" The now alive dead body pleaded, "It was only a party. The window was left open - we broke in. We didn’t nick anything, I swear. Don’t call the Police. It was only a…have a ciggy! Don’t go in the bathroom, not ‘til you’ve calmed down anyways…”

Jack deflated and walked back out the front door, he was met by a young blonde woman carrying a suitcase.

"Susan?"

“Jack? What’s going on? Why's Mr Limbey…who's that

?”

The transvestite had followed Jack outside and had put arm round his shoulder.

“You’ll never guess what, Jackyboy! There are pictures of you an’ some blonde woman all over the place…” He spotted Susan, “Oh, hello…”

Jack looked at Richard and then guiltily at Susan, just in time to see a flailing hand heading his way; it struck him coldly across the cheek. Susan grabbed the back of Jack's hair, bending him backwards, and stared at his forehead.

“Oh, you TWAT

! What've you done to our house?”

END

George's Plight

The man stumbled forward and took his place in the circle. It was almost a fortress, palisaded with seats and braced by those ready to confess, ready to claim redemption for their shoddy ways. He was glad to be among them, coming this far was hard enough; but the underlying pangs of pity and guilt lay heavy in his stomach, swirling with his morning intake. All eyes seemed to be anchored to the ground, but he couldn't prevent his own from shuffling and dodging, avoiding contact with all others.

He knew why he came and what he had to do. It was time for courage now, not cowardice. Time for pure grit rather than fear. This seemed to be the only way to get well, he owed it to himself. He stood shakily, the eyes rose to meet him. He gazed down and drew a sharp, cold breath. It was time to testify.

"My name's…my name's…" He filled his lungs once more in order to hold his nerve. This moment had been too long coming, and he knew it. "My name's George and I am an alcoholic."

George closed his clichéd opener with a hiccup and a brief stagger leftwards. The circle stared at him in silence, not quite as welcoming as he had anticipated. For what he knew of the workings of these support groups, someone owed him a cuddle round about now. Surely they were obliged to at least clap.

"I said my name's Georged…" He slurred his words as he raised his voice to the crowd, "…I'm alcoholololic...I'mnn drunked…even now."

The circle stared once more; their eyes burnt his face like magnifying glasses in the sun. George's time-served alcoholism earned him a large tolerance to the drug; on any given day, he knew how to hide his severe lack of sobriety. Not now though, his guard eluded him as he stood exposed before his peers, naked right down to the soul. His head drooped, his shoulders swayed and he slurred freely, completely unable to disguise the fact that his body was, at this particular moment, around nine-tenths whiskey.


There was a shuffling in the group. An old lady who was sat with a book perched upon her lap leant forwards and eyed the circle. She stood up as sheepishly as George had done a moment ago.

"George. Well, well done for admitting you have a problem. They say that it's the first step to recovery."

"I know, that's why I come, see? 'cause I got no-one anymore. No wife, no kids, nothing. They all run off and left ol' Georgey 'cause I'm a drinker, but I don't wanna drinks no more."

"Yes and we're all proud of you for it, George. I'm sorry to say though that you may have taken a wrong turning." She waved a hand around the circle, "This is the Woman's Institute Book Club…in my own home. You live next door, George."

"Oh. But…next door, you say?" George deflated before her eyes and knocked and patted the wall as if to make sure.

"Although, I'm sure there'll be an Alcoholics Anonymous in the church hall."

"Oh, um…sorry…" George teetered on the spot and scanned the circle, desperately trying to focus on the bobbing images of old ladies, looking somewhat bewildered. "…ladies...I didn't mean to…book club? Can…can I join in? I'll go home an' I'll get a book."

"I'm afraid this is a ladies' club, for members of the Woman's Institute. Seeing as you're neither, I'd have to say…I'm sorry. I'll say again though, that we all wish you a speedy recovery from your…well, your problem. Don't we ladies?"

There was a murmur from the group, coupled with unified shuffling-in-seats. The spokeswoman dipped to retake her own.

"What you reading then?"

She rose again even more uncomfortably than before, looking around the circle, begging for some kind of moral support.


"Well…err…we're just about to start a new book actually, 'Of Mice and Men'. John Steinbeck."

"I got that one. He shoots his friend at the end, Lenny. He killed this girl…y'see?"

George mimed being shot in the head with his fingers. A Mexican wave of tuts reverberated around the circle; books were thrown to the ground with grimacing comments.

"Oh, right. OK. Well we hadn't got to that… had we ladies? In fact, I think I hear my husband calling. I'll be right back".

George watched her scuttle out of the room; he let himself collapse back into the chair behind him. Even in his state, he could still taste the avoidance in the air as he watched the circle dodge his gaze. The embarrassment, the guilt, the utter self-loathing and downright patheticness rose once more like fire in his throat. His intoxication only served to exaggerate his emotions and the tears began to roll.

"I'm sorry I ruined your party ladies, I don't mean to be like I am. I don't wanna drink most of the time. It hurts

when I drink. In here." He signalled to his stomach, earning a slight rumble of sympathy from some of the group. "But if I don't drinks, see? It hurts in here." This time he signalled to his head, a little more violently and confrontationally than before. The eyes dropped again. "I got something in me that tells me I gotta drink, an' if I don't then…then I gotta…"

In an instant, George's face changed from the sorry expression that seemed to hang lazily off his skull, to one taut with anger. He leapt and turned, grabbing his seat in an attempt to swing it in a fit of rage, but managed only to trip, stumble and plant the crown of his head bluntly into the wall. He fell lifelessly to the ground.

***

"My name's George, and…an' I'm an alcoholic."

Murmurs of approval were passed around the circle followed by a slow round of applause.

"I've been dry now for three days."

This was met with more unconvincing applause. George absorbed his surroundings. Two dozen pink and bleary eyes stared back, their gazes travelling through him, rather than at.

"There was some nastiness at a club."

"A night club?" Justin was the group's host. He was a reformed drinker himself, finding God in the process.

"No, a book club. Not too different from this place to be honest. A bunch of people having a good whinge about life…" He looked around the circle; his dishevelled audience smoked, sipped tea and stared blankly at the walls. "…the odd underlying whiffs of urine. Not a single job between them. The only difference is that that lot took more drugs."

"Well, we are all here for you George. Jesus is here for you."

"Really?" He looked around him, "Well, I would've thought you'd spruce the place up a bit for him. It's a shit hole."


George looked for a laugh from the zombie circle, still they just stared.

"Not in a physical sense, George. Faith will help you to heal." Justin wasn't in the circle itself, he paced around the outside, stopping sporadically to place his hands on people's shoulders. "Beating alcoholism is a long, arduous battle George, and we're all proud of you for coming this far alone."

"The bus stops right outside, so I…"

"But, I don't think you can succeed on your own, George." Justin stopped on the opposite side of the circle, facing George. "You can joke about it George, but addiction bears a great sense of arrogance and superiority. Both of which are branches of the denial tree." Justin mimed a tree shape with his hands in the air. "You look around you and see traits and symptoms in fellow addicts that you don't recognise inside of yourself…"

Justin began to round the perimeter once more, placing a hand on each head as he spoke.

"…degeneration. Vulnerability. Poor hygiene…"

The addict with the hand on his head looked up.

"…well, that one may be unrelated. The point is George that you look around the circle, at these people and you don't put yourself amongst them. As an alcoholic, you're no better than anyone here. You belong. The hardest battle for you will be changing your introspective and for that, you need us."

Justin began the round of applause to cap off his own speech, the circle joined in hypnotically.

"Sit down George."

George sat.

"Now, last time we were here, Boxer was making real progress. Why don't you stand up Boxer and continue your story?"

Boxer wiped his nose on his sleeve and strained himself to his feet, "Well, as I was sayin' I was earning a proper mint on the building site, right. Every night I was pissing…" The six foot, tattooed and shaven headed Boxer put a finger to his lips, "…err…peeing it up. Soz Justin."

"Continue", Justin spoke into George's raised eyebrows.

"Yeah, right. I was slinging 'em back left, right, north, south and any other way they was comin' from, y'see? I gotta temper on me. I ain't proud o' what I did, but…" The giant re-arranged his stance, all of a sudden looking uncomfortable. To George's surprise, tears started dropping freely from Boxer's chin. He did nothing to hold them back. "I came home one night, she got all in my face with the, 'What time you call this?' and the, 'You stink o' booze' and...I just whacked 'er one...well, two actually. I didn't mean to do it, I didn't want to hit 'er, it's like her head came right at my fists. Twice."

Boxer collapsed into his seat, the circle came alive with rapturous applause, patting his back as he cradled his face and openly congratulated him, all except George.

"George. Don't you think Boxer did well? It takes courage to bear your soul like that." Justin leant patronisingly over his shoulder, all eyes were locked on George now.

"Well, first of all I thought this lot only turned up for the free biscuits, but it turns out they like their drama."

He felt the sharpness of Justin's gaze and the heat of Boxer's breath, who was sat metres away. George seemed to recoil in his seat without moving.

"I've just never really applauded domestic violence."

"What the fuck would you know 'bout it, then?" Boxer erupted. George felt the impact of each word pounding into his chest.

"Boxer, take two minutes out of the circle. We all forgive you." Justin raised a calming hand and sat in the newly vacant seat.

"Don't you think we all deserve a second chance, George? We've all made mistakes, we've all strayed from the beaten track, but we've all followed our respective beacons to this place of recovery, this place of forgiveness. This is a circle of love and support, never accusation. We all need love and support here, so we offer it in return." This earned a feeble nod from the group. "I think someone's waiting outside the circle for an apology George."

"Yeah? I'd like to see you going down the local nuthouse singing that love and forgiveness lark. They wouldn't even let you home to collect your pyjamas. I don't know how you've managed to hypnotise this bunch, but all that 'Jesus loves you' malarkey doesn't wash with me."

"Geor…"

"To be honest, with this new found sobriety, I'd forgotten how fucking doo-lally this world really is. I mean, look at this lot." George waved a hand round the circle. "They're lifeless. Is this rehabilitation? Is this life eternal? If so I'm jumping off the wagon. I'd rather live six months as a drunk then twenty years as…as…some bleeding whiter-than-a-Nun's-knicker-drawer God botherer."

The circle grew agitated as George grew more confrontational. His body was screaming for alcohol, his joints were grinding like an un-oiled engine. His heart beat searing blood through his aching veins as his anger boiled.

"You all congratulate that wrestler…"

"Boxer."

"Boxer, for going home pissed and physically abusing his wife, just because he admitted it? What, so do we go down the courts and throw roses at anyone who pleads guilty?"

"We are supporting him through his rehabilitation, offering love and forgiveness…"

"There you go again, banging on about your love and bloody forgiveness. I hope you don't back horses with that blind faith."

"I was weak and a light shone on me…"

"Yeah, the paramedic's torch just before they dragged you out the gutter. So, you've seen this 'light', and what? It was so clean and bright that now everything else looks dirty? You're going round like some sodding Grandma with a wet-wipe, scrubbing everyone's chin you can get your hands on. What's so bad with having a bit of dirt round your chin anyway?"

George eyed the circle once more, they all sat slouched in their seats, staring at the ceiling, without reaction to anything that has just been said.

"Why do you lot come here anyway?"

A few members looked around; one stood up sheepishly and scratched his head. "My name's Tom, an' I'm an alcoholic."

Justin furiously started clapping and the circle followed suit, robotically.

"No, no, we know that, but why did you come here

?"

"Judge told me to. Otherwise I'm down for two years. Drunk driver, see? I knocked down some old girl and her dog, 'Poppy'."

"How do you know the dog's name?"


"It was stuck to my windscreen when I got home, collar an' all. That's how I knew I'd hit something."

The group applauded.

"Shhhh. No need to applau…what about you?" George picked somebody at random, who obediently stood.

"My name's Max, an' I'm…"

"Yes, yes, we know." One person in the group clapped, George glared fiercely. "But why are you here?"

"I gots to. Otherwise they're gonna stop my benefits."

"So, let me clear this up. Hands up whoever's here off their own backs? Who came here 'cause they actually wanted to change

?".

An old man feebley raised his arm, Justin sighed with relief.

"You came here because you wanted

to change?" George spoke like an interrigator.

"Well, actually it's a bit embarrasing. I'm not really an alcoholic. I thought this was Bridge Club. Justin wouldn't let me leave. He kept saying I was in denial. I only have a glass of Sherry at Christmas."

"When did you start coming here?"

"Three months ago."

"There's your circle of love and support, Justin. Fuck this, I need a drink."

***

"The differenearance between a heavy drinker and an alcohololic is that the heavy drinker jus' drinks far, far too much. Like me…and…er…what's your name again?"

"My frien's call me Boxer…but my real name, my real name's Henry."

"Well, Henry…what was I saying? I don't know. All this healthy eating malarkey is like the new black."

"Yeah, 'cause all these rap singers is starting to get a bit boring now and they needs replacing with something. Why not a salad?"

The barman raised an eyebrow at the two drunks that leant heavily on the bar talking nonsense and checked his watch, it was little after noon. "Gents, you need to wake your friend up." He gestured to the third man that lay asleep next to them. George turned and nudged him,

"Oi, Justin. The man says you gotta wake up."

"What's that?" Justin woke slowly, then gestured the barman to come close. "You know what? I think if Parkinson's disease met Alzheimer's at a party, right. The love-child of their symptoms would be alcoholism."

"I think you've had…"

"Have you ever met anyone suffering from Parkinson's? They're all over the show." He pointed dizzily at George who, for the third time couldn't find his mouth with his drink, "See? Alzheimer's is different all together, I…I…what was I saying?"

"Look, I'm sorry sir but you've got to…"

"The difference between us and those people with the actual Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases is that they'd do anything, an' I mean anything to not have their symptoms. Yet we choose to have them. We choose to be here. I spoke to God…"

"Right, that's it. You've had too much to…"

"…I used to be an alcohololic y'know, but I've transformed myself into…" Justin's head dropped and he vomited into his lap. "That's warm. Oh, now it's cold."

***

"My name's George, an' that's Justin. We're…oh, fuck it".

END

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