The McDead

The past

Next morning, Brant was sick as forty pigs. That’s real bad. Dragging himself to the shower he swore, ‘Never again.’

Yeah. Fragments of the night returned.

How when the pub closed, that’s when they got hungry.

Off to the Chinese where they drank bamboo wine … Could that be right?

Leaning against the toilet bowl, Brant begged, ‘Please let me not have had the curry.’

As he threw up, he thought, ‘Damn, I had the curry.’

Afterwards, they’d come back to Brant’s place and played neo-whine songs. All the great torches. Barbara Streisand, ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’; Celine Dion, ‘Theme from Titanic’; Bonnie Tyler, ‘Lost in France’; Meatloaf, ‘Two Outta Three Ain’t Bad’.

And if the debris in his living room was any indication, they’d drank:

Beer,

More vodka

and

Cooking sherry.

‘Jaysus … please, not cooking sherry.’

Threw up again. Yup, the sherry.

Got in the shower and blitzkreiged.

Coming out he felt marginally better. Then to the living room, muttered, ‘Fuck,’ as he surveyed the carnage. How many cigarettes, exactly, had he smoked? Shuddered to think, and he needed one now. Took a stubbie from an ashtray, lit up.

Rough.

Once he got past the coughing jag, the bile and nausea bit, it wasn’t too bad. Said aloud, ‘Hey, it’s not as if I had to have a drink.’

Got his clothes on and checked out the mirror. Mmmm … least he hadn’t slept in them. Still, looked like somebody slept on him.

In the kitchen, made the coffee, two heaped spoons. Jolt himself into the day. Added a ton of sugar and then surveyed it, said, ‘I am not, repeat not, drinking that shit,’ and slung it down the sink. Then he physically shook himself and left.

A few minutes later he was back, walked across the room, picked up an open vodka bottle, chugged the final hit. Waited.

It stayed down.

He said, ‘Now yer cookin.’

And went to fight the day.

At the station, the duty sergeant said, ‘A woman called you.’

‘Called me what?’

‘Said she was yer wife.’

Jesus!

When Brant didn’t say anything, the uniformed sergeant added, ‘Wanted yer number but of course I said I couldn’t do that. So she gave me her number.’

Passed the piece of paper to Brant, then said, ‘I didn’t know you had a wife.’

‘I don’t.’ Not any more.

Mary had left him over ten years ago. Hadn’t heard a dicky-bird since.

Called the number and when a woman answered, said, ‘It’s Brant.’

‘Oh Tom, thank you for calling me back, I wasn’t sure you would.’

‘What do you want?’

‘No hellos or how are you?’

‘You rang to see how I am?’

‘Well, not completely but…

‘So get on with it.’

He heard the click of a lighter, the inhale of smoke, nearly said, ‘You smoke?’ But then, what was it to him? She could mainline heroin, what did he care?

Then:

‘My husband, Paul … I married again five years ago … he’s in trouble.’

‘What kind?’

‘He was accused of shoplifting at M amp;S, at their flagship store.’

‘Their what?’

‘The big one at Marble Arch.’

‘What did he nick?’

‘Oh Tom, he didn’t … the store detective stopped him outside, said he didn’t pay for a tin of beans. He’d over thirty pounds of shopping. Would he steal a tin?’

‘Would he?’

‘Course not. Can you help?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Thank you Tom, I’ve been so worried.’

‘What’s the name?’

‘Silly me, it’s Watson, he’s the security officer on food.’

‘Your name, your married name.’

‘Oh.’

‘It would be useful if I had your husband’s name.’

‘Johnson … Paul Johnson, he’s… Brant hung up.

What he most wanted to know was why he was so reluctant to use the word ‘husband’.