Dying to Live

Chapter 33 - Beer and Biscuits

We both laugh and clink bottles.

"Consider it done," I say.

We talk and then we talk some more. Somewhere in the middle of a conversation about go‑go bars, sex shows and table tennis balls, Marty falls asleep. I throw a rug over him before going to the fridge to grab myself another beer. I wander into his conservatory and lie on the cane sofa so I can gaze at the stars through the glass roof. Twinkle, twinkl,e little star, how I wonder what made me so damned lucky. Tears are running down my face as I raise my beer bottle to the moon and thank God for keeping me safe.

☼☼☼

A faceful of sunlight hits me square in the, ahmmm, face. I'm lying on my back in Marty's conservatory gazing at the moon, except the moon has long gone, replaced by good old British sunshine.

I try and stand but I'm so stiff it takes a while. Half a bottle of beer remains clamped in my left hand. I must have slept all night like that and not a drop spilt. A quick swig tells me it's as flat as a polished pancake, so I finish it in one long gulp. No point in prolonging the agony.

"Marty?"

"Breakfast. Kitchen."

Hangover conversations are best kept short and sweet.

"Morning," I say as I suck in the aroma of burnt fat.

"Afternoon," says Marty as he slides a plateful of darkened meat and toast across the table.

I tuck into what was once a sausage. It tastes better than the beer but not by much. We munch in silence for a while. This is the best breakfast I had for months; charcoal coated meat, burnt toast and a mug of stewed tea. Heaven.

"I'll never forget what you've done for me," I say for the millionth time.

"Don't sweat it, mate, you'd have done the same for me."

"I know, but, well, you know..." My sentence tails off because I'm not sure I would have done the same for him. I might have but I hope I never have to find out. "Okay, first things first, we're going to the bank to sort out your money. I'm not taking no for an answer."

He doesn't argue, either because he believes I won't take no for an answer or maybe he needs the money in a hurry if he's to have any chance of patching things up with Brenda.

A quick shower and change of clothes makes me look reasonably human.

"You look like a tramp," says Marty dispelling any positive thoughts I had about my appearance.

"I thought I looked quite stylish."

"Ish being the operative part of the word," he says eying me up and down. "To be fair the fashion's quite good, it's just how you wear it."

"Cheeky bastard." I'm wearing his clothes because I've got nothing of mine here. Marty always was bigger and more muscular than me, and my stint on Bangkok prison rations hasn't done anything to fill me out. Maybe we should go shopping after the bank.

"Okay, let's go do this," I say pulling on a jacket which is at least two sizes too big.

The bank is a grim old place, I always hate coming here. There's a queue every time and today's no exception. We're about sixth in line and everyone who's been to a teller so far has taken ages. Every one of them seemed to have a story to tell; a son in America who's lost his wallet and needs money immediately, a direct debit which hasn't been paid and the company has cut off the service... the stories go on and on. The people behind the counters are taking forever to deal with them even though they're meant to be tellers not listeners.