Cloth caps

Donkey jackets

Terylene pants.

Twin drinks. Always and for ever, the half drained pint of Guinness, creamy head intact. No mean achievement. I’d never known them acknowledge each other. I knew them as the sentries only. What they were guarding is anybody’s guess. The old values perhaps. One had fallen to a coronary. The second had shifted his tent when Grogan’s changed hands.

I felt old. Circling fifty, every bad year was etched on my face. The hangover threw in another hard five. Jeff asked,

“Coffee?”

“Does the pope have beads?”

“That’s a yes?”

I headed upstairs. They’d given me the attic room. It was clean, Spartan. Thomas Merton could have swung a cat in it. Sunlight streamed in through the roof window. It gave me an illusion of hope. Got my toilet gear and went in search of a bathroom. It was unoccupied. Spotlessly maintained, with a crescendo of fluffy towels. I said,

“O…K.”

Tore off my ruined suit and got into the shower. As best I could, I avoided seeing my torso. Numerous beatings had left a sorry legacy. Turned the tap to scalding and let the bastard roar. Eased out with my skin tingling. Wrapped in one of those towels, I checked their cabinet.

Doesn’t everybody?

Lots of female stuff. Sprayed on a Mum deodorant. The fumes nearly choked me. Shook loose some family aspirin and dry swallowed them. There was a bottle of aftershave in a striking metal flask. Named Harley. I thought,

“C’mon, Jeff.”

Massaged it into my beard, said,

“Things go better with coke.”

Set up some lines on the sink, took a deep breath and snorted. A few moments, nothing doing. Thought maybe the hangover was riding shotgun. Then angels sang. The rush was related to nausea. Could feel my eyes open wide. Man, I wasn’t hurting no more. Skipped back to my room, muttering,