FIC: SLOW BURN CH 3: SENSE OF DOUBT, GREEN CORTINA, BY GIRL WITH THE MOUSY HAIR
Title: Slow Burn Chapter 3: Sense of Doubt
Rating: PG - Green Cortina
Word Count/Length: 2949
Summary: Chapter three of seven. Sam and Gene each have a day to themselves - a prospect dampened by a good dose of hangover.
Notes: The burn is slower than ever. I feel like this chapter works less well on its own, so I'll post the follow up later on this week as long as nobody minds another big dose of my words so soon!
Sam woke up on Saturday morning and began to develop The Fear. He’d had an unusually good sleep; the details of getting home were hazy, but he’d woken up in the middle of the night, sitting in front of the TV, shoes off and shirt unbuttoned. The test card girl was on the screen, where she belonged, though she did seem to look a bit reproachful. He’d turned her off: that’s where you can stay, you tiny witch. He’d shuffled the few steps to the bed, shrugged off his shirt and trousers, and rolled in, pulling the battered old duvet round him. The next thing he remembered was waking up. No bad dreams, no waking himself up shouting, no cold sweats. No sweat at all actually; he had reached that special place populated by only the hungover, where he was fever hot but producing no sweat whatsoever. He felt like he was baking from the inside out. His head was a whirl of half-memories, the worst of which being
Oh Lord, was I flirting with Gene Hunt? FLIRTING? With GENE?
He remembered rationalising it to himself last night, thinking that he probably wouldn’t even remember it this morning. Oh, the irony. He remembered in excruciating detail the long seconds of eye contact, the feeling of warmth in his stomach as he and the Guv laughed over some joke, the touch of their hands on the whiskey glass.
Jesus. He freed his hands from the stifling duvet to put them over his eyes, pressing hard enough to send silver rockets across the darkness. He scrubbed over the rest of his face, and, sitting up, through his hair. Sitting up did not agree with him, and he sat that way for a moment, hands on top of his head and eyes shut, in a private world of paranoia and pain. When the thumping subsided, he climbed carefully off the sagging mattress and padded towards the kitchen for water. He found an empty beans tin and a dirty fork and pot on the counter; at least he’d had the sense to eat something when he got in, then. As he ran the tap, he turned the events of last night over and over in his mind. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a losing argument. God, why had he got so drunk?
That was the eternal question, of course. He and Maya had once amused themselves for hours trying to find as many different hangover types as they could, based on the first thing you thought to yourself when you woke up with one. His favourites were the Theological - ‘Oh God’ - the Scatological - ‘Shit’ - and the Philosophical - ‘Why?’. This hangover had already ticked two of the boxes, and he’d additionally just made himself feel worse by thinking about Maya. There was a real world somewhere, a world where he’d never have had this hangover and would never, ever be standing here in his vest and pants, in front of a rusty old sink, wondering if he’d been flirting with an overweight, middle aged man. Even if that man did look good in a camelhair coat.
The water was running cold now, and he filled a glass for himself, leaving the tap running as he drank half of it in one go. He refilled it, stopped the water and shuffled back into the other room. The Fear started to abate a bit. He hadn’t actually been flirting. They’d just had a couple of awkward eye contact moments, that was hardly big news, as leathered as they’d been. There was nothing to it. Besides, now that he thought about it, the first sign of flirting with Gene Hunt was probably his fist in your kidneys as he took you out for being a shirt lifter.
He drank more water, and checked his watch. He’d slept for eight hours, a personal record for recent times. Maybe that was just what he needed. Pity he’d woken up feeling like a manky old boot. He turned the TV back on and settled in the armchair, dragging the duvet off the hated bed while holding his water steady with the other hand. He could sit this hangover out for a few hours before he went out for a jog. He would just sit here, and wait it out, Fear or no Fear.
Gene Hunt had never had The Fear in his life. He wouldn’t recognise it as a Thing with Capital Letters if you said it to him, wouldn’t understand it even if you tried to explain. He knew fear alright, oh yes, but this soft business, all doubt and despair? Bollocks. He did, however, know what a hangover was, and he had a reasonable one of those right now. He drew himself upright on the couch - he’d never made it to the cold bed, it seeming less appealing when it was a reality in front of him - and looked around. The wool blanket he’d brought downstairs tangled itself up in his legs. He spotted his fags and hipflask on the table, and reached out for both. A hair of the dog wouldn’t hurt. He lit up and sat back, propping his feet on the table and exhaling loudly, a thin stream of smoke jetting into the air. He wondered how Tyler was this morning; he’d never seen the man so drunk. He’d still been compos mentis enough to nag Gene about drink driving though; Gene thought he was probably never to drunk to pick some fault or other. He had walked, though, and he’d have to go back and get the car later. He might stop in for a pint while he was about it.
He contemplated the days ahead as he smoked. There was nothing going on in CID that meant he had to be in there - at least, not yet - so he might actually have a real weekend, two days off. He had no idea how to fill them. Usually a weekend off would be a visit to the in-laws, an interminable afternoon of tea and forced politeness, followed by a night in front of the TV with a few cans. Sundays would be driving the missus to and from church, a read of the papers, maybe a game of darts then back home for a roast before an early night out of boredom. There wasn’t even a darts game this week. God, what did people do? Well, he could manage the TV and cans part, anyway, that would be enough until Monday came around. He puffed his cigarette and unscrewed the top of the flask with the other hand, taking a nip without really thinking about it. First order of business would be a shower, a shit and a shave before he went to get the Cortina. At least that old girl would never leave him, eh?
Thinking this, he stubbed out his fag in the mostly clean ashtray (he wasn’t the kind of man who would let his home, his castle, go to rack and ruin without a woman around) and heaved himself out of the sofa’s embrace. The blanket he roughly folded and set to the side, knowing he might want it again tonight. He stomped upstairs to start the day.
Sam’s weekends, when they happened, were low key affairs, especially when you compared them to his real life. There were no cocktail parties here in 1973; no barbecues in middle class gardens, no romantic dinners in nice restaurants, not even a movie and a takeaway. There was him, Sam, and sometimes the Test Card Girl. He would rather be on his own, no matter how lonely he felt that kid was never bloody welcome. He wondered what the Guv had been doing with his most recent weekends, how he was adjusting to single life. No more trips to the mother in law’s or whatever married couples did at the weekends. It might not be all bad. He thought back to the conversation they’d had outside the pub, analysing his own words and actions, hoping he’d communicated the correct amount of concern. He remembered Gene telling him to keep his hands to himself; that had been a joke though. Definitely just a joke.
He felt like he might ready to venture outside. The jog had been an ambitious plan, but he could manage out to the shops at least. He was still feeling The Fear, but it came in waves now instead of haranguing him constantly. When he felt like he had reached a spell of low tide, he got out of the chair and headed for the tinpot shower, scrubbing himself as if he could cure his psychological ails as easily as he could banish the smell of the pub from his hair. He found himself humming a tune toward the end, standing under the lukewarm water and actually feeling as though human might be within reach. He padded back into the main room and dressed, singing not quite out loud by now. Finally suited and booted, he was ready to face the streets. He was only planning on going as far as the corner shop to get a few essentials - bread, milk, lucozade and something in a can for dinner. Hoops, maybe. He smiled - he’d never been able to look a tin of spaghetti hoops in the face since his first meeting with the Guv. The man had a turn of phrase, you couldn’t deny it. ‘Avin ‘oops might just be the order of the evening for Sam. The shop might even have a tin of rice pudding if he was lucky. What a rock and roll lifestyle, he smirked to himself. Dinner out of tins. He was too hungover to get out for a proper shop though, as much as he’d have liked to cook something. Sometimes the corner shop had bags of potatoes, so it was possible he could stretch to a corned beef hash. Maybe he should save that delicacy for Sunday dinner.
Caught up in his thoughts, he’d made his way out of the flat and on to the street. The shop was only a few blocks away, that was far enough for him to get some air about him, straighten his head up and come out of this paranoid mood. That said, it was lunchtime now, maybe he should go a bit further afield and get something from a caff? Wouldn’t be too bad to spend a bit of time out of the house. That sounded like a decent plan, he decided, and when he came to the newsagents he stopped only to get a paper, so he’d have something to read over his sandwich and cuppa.
Gene felt a lot better; the powers of a wash, a change of clothes and a few nips of whiskey shouldn’t be underestimated. He was ready to get on with the day, and the rest of the weekend, and he wouldn’t be spending any of it thinking about his feelings or moping about. First stop, the greasy spoon on the main road for one of their bacon rolls. Then, on to the pub to get the Cortina and a carry out. His coat was in its accustomed place over the back of the armchair, and he swept it up on his way to the door, listening for the reassuring jangle of keys in the pocket. He found his keys, his wallet, his badge and the forgotten Scotch bottle. He remembered now sharing it with Tyler as they stood outside the Railway Arms, both of them made awkward by the unusually personal line of conversation. After he’d regarded it for a minute, the bottle went back into the living room, for later. He stepped out of the house, locked up and proceeded to the caff, back straight and taking long strides. He took a deep breath of the air, enjoying its coolness, and tugged a fag packet out of his coat. Always did to have a few packets on the go. He lit up and took a long, satisfying drag. Onwards and upwards.
Gene made it to the Railway Arms, bacon roll dutifully digested. It was quiet at this time on a Saturday, and Nelson was in behind the bar, leafing through a book. He looked up when Gene walked in, and flashed him a broad smile.
‘Mister Hunt! Thought I’d be seein’ you today,’ he said, stepping up to the taps to pour a pint. He lifted a glass and raised one eyebrow in a question. Gene nodded, making his way round to the end of the bar where an inviting stool stood. He settled himself on it, feeling the familiar comfort of being here, in the pub.
‘Late night last night, was it?’ Nelson asked, filling the glass with bitter with a practised hand. ‘You must have been here a long while if you had to leave the ole girl out back.’
‘Late enough Nelson. Everything OK this morning was it?’
‘Of course Mister Hunt, as always.’ He put the pint up on the bar, waving off the Guv’s offer of money. ‘How was Sam when you last saw him?’ Before Gene answered he saw several snapshots of the night flicker past his mind’s eye. He and Sam laughing, brushing Sam’s hand off the top of his glass, watching the plonks and Phyllis swoon over Sam’s ‘modern values’ and feeling a stab of secret jealousy. He looked at Nelson’s wise face, and wondered how much of all that the barman had been aware of. If he knew Nelson, he was probably aware of everything, and then some. He didn’t get the chance to reply to the question anyway, as the barman carried on speaking, apparently keen to get something off his chest.
‘Actually... Heard you two leaving last night,’ he said, giving Gene cause for concern as he started his drink. ‘With the flat being upstairs, and the bedroom right at the front like it is... Well, I can’t help overhearing sometimes.’ He looked apologetically at the other man, confirming his fears, and lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry about your woman.’
Gene shrugged, swallowing and putting the glass back down. ‘Nothing to be done Nelson. No point crying over spilt milk, eh?’ His bravado didn’t seem to phase Nelson, who smiled a little sadly at him but didn’t pursue the matter.
‘Sam must have been alright anyway, if you got him on his feet and walking home. When I went upstairs I thought he might be setting up camp for the night.’ The barman chuckled to himself, his usual good humour seemingly unbreakable even by wives who left while their husband was at work. Gene smiled at him briefly, then took another sip. He didn’t feel the need to ask Nelson to keep the news to himself. For one he’d have overheard him telling Tyler the same thing, and for another he’d rarely met anyone as discreet. Part of the territory he supposed, barmen must hear an awful lot of personal revelations when the punters were in their cups.
‘He wasn’t too drunk to nag me about driving, I can tell you that much,’ he said, happy to keep the conversation off the topic of his marriage. Nelson laughed again, then moved off to pour another pint. Gene carried on with his own, letting his gaze pan round the quiet room and thinking of nothing much except how many cans he’d want for later, and if he wanted to add a half bottle to his order. If his eyes stopped on the table he and Sam had been at last night, he wasn’t aware of it. By the time Nelson came back he’d settled on a number of beers, plus a half of whiskey, and asked the barman to bag up the necessary. That would see him through the weekend, he reckoned, as he handed over the cash. He finished up his pint and waved away the offer of another, standing to lift his carry out off the bar.
‘See you soon mon brahv,’ Nelson said. Gene only nodded his reply and set off for the Cortina, and home.
Sam left the cafe feeling much more like himself (whoever that was). He meandered back to the flat, stopping off to pick up the essentials he’d listed earlier plus a bag of spuds and a bottle of red. Well, after all, it was Saturday night. He’d also passed by a run down charity shop and bought himself a couple of paperbacks; there was only so much TV that one man could watch. It occurred to him that he could have got his carry out from Nelson, and maybe some intelligent conversation to go with it. Probably for the best that he hadn’t. Returning to the scene of extreme drunkenness was best left a few days, in his experience. He made his way up the stairs to his bedsit, his heart sinking as usual when he opened the front door on to the same old peeling wallpaper and mouldering carpet. The first order of business would be to tidy it up a bit; get the dishes washed up, maybe some clean sheets on the heap of iron bars and springs masquerading as a bed. He’d feel better after he did. So thinking, Sam closed the door behind him and began getting his house in order. He’d reward himself with a glass of wine with dinner, and take the rest of the weekend one step at a time.
Rating: PG - Green Cortina
Word Count/Length: 2949
Summary: Chapter three of seven. Sam and Gene each have a day to themselves - a prospect dampened by a good dose of hangover.
Notes: The burn is slower than ever. I feel like this chapter works less well on its own, so I'll post the follow up later on this week as long as nobody minds another big dose of my words so soon!
Sam woke up on Saturday morning and began to develop The Fear. He’d had an unusually good sleep; the details of getting home were hazy, but he’d woken up in the middle of the night, sitting in front of the TV, shoes off and shirt unbuttoned. The test card girl was on the screen, where she belonged, though she did seem to look a bit reproachful. He’d turned her off: that’s where you can stay, you tiny witch. He’d shuffled the few steps to the bed, shrugged off his shirt and trousers, and rolled in, pulling the battered old duvet round him. The next thing he remembered was waking up. No bad dreams, no waking himself up shouting, no cold sweats. No sweat at all actually; he had reached that special place populated by only the hungover, where he was fever hot but producing no sweat whatsoever. He felt like he was baking from the inside out. His head was a whirl of half-memories, the worst of which being
Oh Lord, was I flirting with Gene Hunt? FLIRTING? With GENE?
He remembered rationalising it to himself last night, thinking that he probably wouldn’t even remember it this morning. Oh, the irony. He remembered in excruciating detail the long seconds of eye contact, the feeling of warmth in his stomach as he and the Guv laughed over some joke, the touch of their hands on the whiskey glass.
Jesus. He freed his hands from the stifling duvet to put them over his eyes, pressing hard enough to send silver rockets across the darkness. He scrubbed over the rest of his face, and, sitting up, through his hair. Sitting up did not agree with him, and he sat that way for a moment, hands on top of his head and eyes shut, in a private world of paranoia and pain. When the thumping subsided, he climbed carefully off the sagging mattress and padded towards the kitchen for water. He found an empty beans tin and a dirty fork and pot on the counter; at least he’d had the sense to eat something when he got in, then. As he ran the tap, he turned the events of last night over and over in his mind. He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t a big deal, but it was a losing argument. God, why had he got so drunk?
That was the eternal question, of course. He and Maya had once amused themselves for hours trying to find as many different hangover types as they could, based on the first thing you thought to yourself when you woke up with one. His favourites were the Theological - ‘Oh God’ - the Scatological - ‘Shit’ - and the Philosophical - ‘Why?’. This hangover had already ticked two of the boxes, and he’d additionally just made himself feel worse by thinking about Maya. There was a real world somewhere, a world where he’d never have had this hangover and would never, ever be standing here in his vest and pants, in front of a rusty old sink, wondering if he’d been flirting with an overweight, middle aged man. Even if that man did look good in a camelhair coat.
The water was running cold now, and he filled a glass for himself, leaving the tap running as he drank half of it in one go. He refilled it, stopped the water and shuffled back into the other room. The Fear started to abate a bit. He hadn’t actually been flirting. They’d just had a couple of awkward eye contact moments, that was hardly big news, as leathered as they’d been. There was nothing to it. Besides, now that he thought about it, the first sign of flirting with Gene Hunt was probably his fist in your kidneys as he took you out for being a shirt lifter.
He drank more water, and checked his watch. He’d slept for eight hours, a personal record for recent times. Maybe that was just what he needed. Pity he’d woken up feeling like a manky old boot. He turned the TV back on and settled in the armchair, dragging the duvet off the hated bed while holding his water steady with the other hand. He could sit this hangover out for a few hours before he went out for a jog. He would just sit here, and wait it out, Fear or no Fear.
Gene Hunt had never had The Fear in his life. He wouldn’t recognise it as a Thing with Capital Letters if you said it to him, wouldn’t understand it even if you tried to explain. He knew fear alright, oh yes, but this soft business, all doubt and despair? Bollocks. He did, however, know what a hangover was, and he had a reasonable one of those right now. He drew himself upright on the couch - he’d never made it to the cold bed, it seeming less appealing when it was a reality in front of him - and looked around. The wool blanket he’d brought downstairs tangled itself up in his legs. He spotted his fags and hipflask on the table, and reached out for both. A hair of the dog wouldn’t hurt. He lit up and sat back, propping his feet on the table and exhaling loudly, a thin stream of smoke jetting into the air. He wondered how Tyler was this morning; he’d never seen the man so drunk. He’d still been compos mentis enough to nag Gene about drink driving though; Gene thought he was probably never to drunk to pick some fault or other. He had walked, though, and he’d have to go back and get the car later. He might stop in for a pint while he was about it.
He contemplated the days ahead as he smoked. There was nothing going on in CID that meant he had to be in there - at least, not yet - so he might actually have a real weekend, two days off. He had no idea how to fill them. Usually a weekend off would be a visit to the in-laws, an interminable afternoon of tea and forced politeness, followed by a night in front of the TV with a few cans. Sundays would be driving the missus to and from church, a read of the papers, maybe a game of darts then back home for a roast before an early night out of boredom. There wasn’t even a darts game this week. God, what did people do? Well, he could manage the TV and cans part, anyway, that would be enough until Monday came around. He puffed his cigarette and unscrewed the top of the flask with the other hand, taking a nip without really thinking about it. First order of business would be a shower, a shit and a shave before he went to get the Cortina. At least that old girl would never leave him, eh?
Thinking this, he stubbed out his fag in the mostly clean ashtray (he wasn’t the kind of man who would let his home, his castle, go to rack and ruin without a woman around) and heaved himself out of the sofa’s embrace. The blanket he roughly folded and set to the side, knowing he might want it again tonight. He stomped upstairs to start the day.
Sam’s weekends, when they happened, were low key affairs, especially when you compared them to his real life. There were no cocktail parties here in 1973; no barbecues in middle class gardens, no romantic dinners in nice restaurants, not even a movie and a takeaway. There was him, Sam, and sometimes the Test Card Girl. He would rather be on his own, no matter how lonely he felt that kid was never bloody welcome. He wondered what the Guv had been doing with his most recent weekends, how he was adjusting to single life. No more trips to the mother in law’s or whatever married couples did at the weekends. It might not be all bad. He thought back to the conversation they’d had outside the pub, analysing his own words and actions, hoping he’d communicated the correct amount of concern. He remembered Gene telling him to keep his hands to himself; that had been a joke though. Definitely just a joke.
He felt like he might ready to venture outside. The jog had been an ambitious plan, but he could manage out to the shops at least. He was still feeling The Fear, but it came in waves now instead of haranguing him constantly. When he felt like he had reached a spell of low tide, he got out of the chair and headed for the tinpot shower, scrubbing himself as if he could cure his psychological ails as easily as he could banish the smell of the pub from his hair. He found himself humming a tune toward the end, standing under the lukewarm water and actually feeling as though human might be within reach. He padded back into the main room and dressed, singing not quite out loud by now. Finally suited and booted, he was ready to face the streets. He was only planning on going as far as the corner shop to get a few essentials - bread, milk, lucozade and something in a can for dinner. Hoops, maybe. He smiled - he’d never been able to look a tin of spaghetti hoops in the face since his first meeting with the Guv. The man had a turn of phrase, you couldn’t deny it. ‘Avin ‘oops might just be the order of the evening for Sam. The shop might even have a tin of rice pudding if he was lucky. What a rock and roll lifestyle, he smirked to himself. Dinner out of tins. He was too hungover to get out for a proper shop though, as much as he’d have liked to cook something. Sometimes the corner shop had bags of potatoes, so it was possible he could stretch to a corned beef hash. Maybe he should save that delicacy for Sunday dinner.
Caught up in his thoughts, he’d made his way out of the flat and on to the street. The shop was only a few blocks away, that was far enough for him to get some air about him, straighten his head up and come out of this paranoid mood. That said, it was lunchtime now, maybe he should go a bit further afield and get something from a caff? Wouldn’t be too bad to spend a bit of time out of the house. That sounded like a decent plan, he decided, and when he came to the newsagents he stopped only to get a paper, so he’d have something to read over his sandwich and cuppa.
Gene felt a lot better; the powers of a wash, a change of clothes and a few nips of whiskey shouldn’t be underestimated. He was ready to get on with the day, and the rest of the weekend, and he wouldn’t be spending any of it thinking about his feelings or moping about. First stop, the greasy spoon on the main road for one of their bacon rolls. Then, on to the pub to get the Cortina and a carry out. His coat was in its accustomed place over the back of the armchair, and he swept it up on his way to the door, listening for the reassuring jangle of keys in the pocket. He found his keys, his wallet, his badge and the forgotten Scotch bottle. He remembered now sharing it with Tyler as they stood outside the Railway Arms, both of them made awkward by the unusually personal line of conversation. After he’d regarded it for a minute, the bottle went back into the living room, for later. He stepped out of the house, locked up and proceeded to the caff, back straight and taking long strides. He took a deep breath of the air, enjoying its coolness, and tugged a fag packet out of his coat. Always did to have a few packets on the go. He lit up and took a long, satisfying drag. Onwards and upwards.
Gene made it to the Railway Arms, bacon roll dutifully digested. It was quiet at this time on a Saturday, and Nelson was in behind the bar, leafing through a book. He looked up when Gene walked in, and flashed him a broad smile.
‘Mister Hunt! Thought I’d be seein’ you today,’ he said, stepping up to the taps to pour a pint. He lifted a glass and raised one eyebrow in a question. Gene nodded, making his way round to the end of the bar where an inviting stool stood. He settled himself on it, feeling the familiar comfort of being here, in the pub.
‘Late night last night, was it?’ Nelson asked, filling the glass with bitter with a practised hand. ‘You must have been here a long while if you had to leave the ole girl out back.’
‘Late enough Nelson. Everything OK this morning was it?’
‘Of course Mister Hunt, as always.’ He put the pint up on the bar, waving off the Guv’s offer of money. ‘How was Sam when you last saw him?’ Before Gene answered he saw several snapshots of the night flicker past his mind’s eye. He and Sam laughing, brushing Sam’s hand off the top of his glass, watching the plonks and Phyllis swoon over Sam’s ‘modern values’ and feeling a stab of secret jealousy. He looked at Nelson’s wise face, and wondered how much of all that the barman had been aware of. If he knew Nelson, he was probably aware of everything, and then some. He didn’t get the chance to reply to the question anyway, as the barman carried on speaking, apparently keen to get something off his chest.
‘Actually... Heard you two leaving last night,’ he said, giving Gene cause for concern as he started his drink. ‘With the flat being upstairs, and the bedroom right at the front like it is... Well, I can’t help overhearing sometimes.’ He looked apologetically at the other man, confirming his fears, and lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry about your woman.’
Gene shrugged, swallowing and putting the glass back down. ‘Nothing to be done Nelson. No point crying over spilt milk, eh?’ His bravado didn’t seem to phase Nelson, who smiled a little sadly at him but didn’t pursue the matter.
‘Sam must have been alright anyway, if you got him on his feet and walking home. When I went upstairs I thought he might be setting up camp for the night.’ The barman chuckled to himself, his usual good humour seemingly unbreakable even by wives who left while their husband was at work. Gene smiled at him briefly, then took another sip. He didn’t feel the need to ask Nelson to keep the news to himself. For one he’d have overheard him telling Tyler the same thing, and for another he’d rarely met anyone as discreet. Part of the territory he supposed, barmen must hear an awful lot of personal revelations when the punters were in their cups.
‘He wasn’t too drunk to nag me about driving, I can tell you that much,’ he said, happy to keep the conversation off the topic of his marriage. Nelson laughed again, then moved off to pour another pint. Gene carried on with his own, letting his gaze pan round the quiet room and thinking of nothing much except how many cans he’d want for later, and if he wanted to add a half bottle to his order. If his eyes stopped on the table he and Sam had been at last night, he wasn’t aware of it. By the time Nelson came back he’d settled on a number of beers, plus a half of whiskey, and asked the barman to bag up the necessary. That would see him through the weekend, he reckoned, as he handed over the cash. He finished up his pint and waved away the offer of another, standing to lift his carry out off the bar.
‘See you soon mon brahv,’ Nelson said. Gene only nodded his reply and set off for the Cortina, and home.
Sam left the cafe feeling much more like himself (whoever that was). He meandered back to the flat, stopping off to pick up the essentials he’d listed earlier plus a bag of spuds and a bottle of red. Well, after all, it was Saturday night. He’d also passed by a run down charity shop and bought himself a couple of paperbacks; there was only so much TV that one man could watch. It occurred to him that he could have got his carry out from Nelson, and maybe some intelligent conversation to go with it. Probably for the best that he hadn’t. Returning to the scene of extreme drunkenness was best left a few days, in his experience. He made his way up the stairs to his bedsit, his heart sinking as usual when he opened the front door on to the same old peeling wallpaper and mouldering carpet. The first order of business would be to tidy it up a bit; get the dishes washed up, maybe some clean sheets on the heap of iron bars and springs masquerading as a bed. He’d feel better after he did. So thinking, Sam closed the door behind him and began getting his house in order. He’d reward himself with a glass of wine with dinner, and take the rest of the weekend one step at a time.