Part 25 (1/2)

His eyes dart from one side of the room to the other as though we are overlooked by men who would do us harm.

'Please. Let us sit awhile. You are my friend.'

The words freeze as they tumble from my mouth. I stare at him, and remember. His embraces, his desire, how he thrust them aside and me with them, his vicious words. He was my friend.

'I shall not keep you,' he says quickly, not meeting my gaze. 'I must go.'

He withdraws his hand and I do not stop him.

'Yes, so you must.'

He turns and walks away, leaving me heavy with memory. He was my friend, and then he was not. As simple as that. I wrote his name on my doc.u.ment. But as easily as it has been burned away, so is he gone. How many other times have I written the heart of myself on to a sc.r.a.p of paper only to see it lost? I drift back to the table and my new companions. Lizzie is gone, as is her habit. Mr Arroner is leaning back in his chair and drawing on the stub-end of a cigar, talking at the top of his voice.

'Bill? Run and fetch a bottle, lad. On me. You've all worked very hard.'

He spills coins into the skinny palm. The boy nods quickly and scampers off.

'Now I shall go and make safe the remainder.'

Mr Arroner pats the flank of the money-box and leaves the room. I take the opportunity to seat myself in the empty s.p.a.ce beside Eve for, I declare, I wish to find more ways to be at her side.

'Off he goes,' grumbles George. 'To cuddle up with his one true love.'

Eve stares into her lap. When Bill returns, George grabs the bottle, measures out a gla.s.s for himself and one for Bill. He waves the gin at Eve and she shrugs, but pushes her gla.s.s forwards to be filled all the same.

She seems subdued tonight, which is not like her usual self. As they cradle their cups, I consider her muted brightness. Who would not be so if wedded to such a puffed-up bore as Mr Arroner? I sigh. We may pretend friends.h.i.+p but I know that I want more. I want communion, a far closer bond than any man may have with a woman who is another's wife.

Eve declares that she wants my friends.h.i.+p, it is true. But so did Alfred. So did the fortune-teller, in his twisted way. How many other so-called friends have I lost in the fug of memory? How often have I been spurned, betrayed? Why should she be any different? Perhaps I am deluding myself with hope and loneliness. I must be a fool to trust again.

These miserable thoughts transport me into a maudlin state, one in which I do not wish to dwell overlong. I consider how George and Bill cram their leisure hours with drinking, how merry it makes them, how swiftly they fall into the numbness of sleep. If they can drink themselves into a snoring oblivion, then so can I.

'I would like a cup of gin,' I say.

Their heads turn.

'What?' squeaks Bill, and George tugs his ear, stretching it out some distance.

'Now, Bill. Have a care. The good Mrs Arroner has instructed me to be philanthropic to our poor companion. Pour him a big one.'

Bill limps off to fetch a fresh gla.s.s, rubbing the side of his head. He presents me with a tin mug slopping with clear liquid, smelling of tar. I toss it back, pat my stomach and belch loudly.

'Another!' I shout.

'That's more like it!' George snickers. 'Why not get another one of them inside you?'

He makes a s.p.a.ce for me at his side, suddenly companionable; feeds me cup after cup, his pleasure at my new-found thirst matched by my hope that it will make me forget how dear Eve has become, how impossible it is for me to trust anyone's offer of friends.h.i.+p.

'Down in one, Abel!' he coos. 'Come on, man. One more for your old pal!'

'George,' I hear Eve say, in the swooping to and fro of my drunken thoughts.

'Watch, everyone! Watch old George make this dead fish swim!'

'I am a happy man!' I shout, shoving my drink into the air, spilling it down my arm. 'Look at all my friends!'

George laughs as though I have made a wonderful joke, and quickly refills what I have lost. Somewhere in the midst of George's merriment I hear Eve say, 'Hold off, you'll make him sick,' but George ignores her and so do I. Later, much later it seems, Lizzie returns.

'Good evening, Lizzies both,' I slur, for there are two of her.

I wonder how they can both fit through the door at the same time, for she is a broad woman. Bill runs to her side and tucks himself under her arm, walks his fingers up her belly, finding the overhang of the first billow of fat and tucking his hand into the warm envelope. He sighs, burrowing his cheek into the comforting flab.

'Not too deep, now, William,' she says, softly. 'There, child; there.'

'I'm not a child,' he mews, without complaint.

'Be glad you are, Bill. Don't be in any hurry to become a man.' She turns her attention to George, then to me. 'I think he's had quite enough.'

'Oh, we're just getting started. Aren't we, Abel?' George throws his arm across my shoulder and I nudge my head in the crook of his neck. 'You're my pal, aren't you now.'

'My pal!' I belch. 'Here's to friends! Best thing in the world!'

'What's he on about?' asks Lizzie.

'Who cares,' says George. 'But what larks I'm having finding out.'

'George, stop this. I know your ways.'

'Lay off, Lizzie. Just welcoming him into the fold.'

She stares down her many chins at him.

'Enough. It is time for us all to be abed.'

'Have it your way,' he mutters. 'Can't a man have a bit of fun at the end of a working day?'

She shoos us away, to the complaints of Bill and George, who swear they wish to drink all night. My knees loosen as I stand, so they crouch under my armpits and carry me swinging between them down to our sleeping-room and drop me on the bed. I roll on to my back, eyes blurring the walls into doubles of themselves.

'Look at me! The happiest man in the world!' I slur at them, and close my eyes.

This is when my pictures come and torment me. I want them to flood in upon me tonight, for nothing could be more cruel than the torment of being knowing myself d.a.m.ned to an eternity of loneliness. But the gin seems to have sealed the jar of myself, and the horrors flap within, teeth pecking too feebly to effect an escape. I grind my teeth with hope, praying for wild dreams to rush in and blot out all thought of Eve and how unattainable she is. I close my eyes, and feel the sway of the great earth beneath my bones.

It begins, in greater force than ever: I am wrenched once again to the top of the tower. I cling to the finger-holds between the bricks, this h.e.l.l I am returned to.

Go on. Do it again, commands the voice.

I look about me and see that the building I am about to throw myself from is different tonight. The houses below are tiled with black stone, gleaming in a spray of rain, and it is no tower: rather, I am scrambling on to the steep pitch of a roof. But wherever I may be, whichever one of the thousand roofs I have climbed on to, my purpose is the same, to grind myself to nothing.