Jerrybaldy
02-09-2013, 05:38 PM
I first spotted Death at the bar ordering a pint. Nobody asked him for ID but hell, he was old enough.
Death could really drink, I heard George mutter from the pool table, ‘Bloody hoodies!’
It was quiet in the Worlds End, even for a wet Wednesday. Death seemed to be keen on Navy Rum and Hamlet cigars. I had fifty quid in my pocket courtesy of a hot tip from George earlier in the day. ‘Styx’ had romped home in the 2.30 at Kempton.
I decided I would drink with Death, shot for shot, from the safety of my usual table in the corner. I didn’t fancy my chances, but Styx had been a winning long shot so I figured lady luck was sat there with me.
By 11pm I was forcing rum through gritted teeth, whilst Procol Harum blared from the jukebox and George was singing about the vestal virgins with that mad glint in his eye.
‘Time Gentlemen Pleeease’ came the familiar call from the bar.
Death stood up as though the 19 Rums had gone straight through him without effect. His finger beckoned me to follow him out.
It didn’t surprise me to find that Death wasn’t the chatty sort. We walked in the rain for the next thirty minutes whilst his bony fingers kept dipping into a seemingly infinite packet of salt and vinegar crisps. He crunched on them tirelessly and seemed to struggle to swallow.
Rain was dripping from the tip of my nose. In reply to Death's crisp crunching came the squelching of water logged socks in my trainers. Heading for home and a warm bed instead of following the back of his cloak didn’t seem to be an option.
We entered Saint Gertrude Park and sat on a bench with a plaque that said ‘In memory of Albert, missed by the pigeons’. At close quarters Death stank; a mixture of salt and vinegar, turds and treacle.
Heavy breathing told me he was nodding off. He snored badly as he fell into an uncomfortable sleep; his head on one side and his mouth open wide, sucking in flying insects of the night. I also heard muffled voices from inside his cloak; the cries of babies and the pleading wails of the old.
Even though I was as wet as I was ever going to get the cold rain stung my face and I yearned to be dry and anywhere else. A crack of lightning lit the park and Death suddenly awoke. He looked at me surprised, as though he had forgotten I was with him.
He opened his cloak, the stench had gone, and instead a welcoming warmth, a release from the rain. An escape from pain. It smelt like a comfort blanket I had forgotten I once had.
He spread his arms wide and I sank inside.
When he released me we were back in the bar. I looked in the corner to see myself slumped over the table. I was quite still and my face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale. George sang along.
The bell rang.
‘Time Gentlemen pleeease!’
Death could really drink, I heard George mutter from the pool table, ‘Bloody hoodies!’
It was quiet in the Worlds End, even for a wet Wednesday. Death seemed to be keen on Navy Rum and Hamlet cigars. I had fifty quid in my pocket courtesy of a hot tip from George earlier in the day. ‘Styx’ had romped home in the 2.30 at Kempton.
I decided I would drink with Death, shot for shot, from the safety of my usual table in the corner. I didn’t fancy my chances, but Styx had been a winning long shot so I figured lady luck was sat there with me.
By 11pm I was forcing rum through gritted teeth, whilst Procol Harum blared from the jukebox and George was singing about the vestal virgins with that mad glint in his eye.
‘Time Gentlemen Pleeease’ came the familiar call from the bar.
Death stood up as though the 19 Rums had gone straight through him without effect. His finger beckoned me to follow him out.
It didn’t surprise me to find that Death wasn’t the chatty sort. We walked in the rain for the next thirty minutes whilst his bony fingers kept dipping into a seemingly infinite packet of salt and vinegar crisps. He crunched on them tirelessly and seemed to struggle to swallow.
Rain was dripping from the tip of my nose. In reply to Death's crisp crunching came the squelching of water logged socks in my trainers. Heading for home and a warm bed instead of following the back of his cloak didn’t seem to be an option.
We entered Saint Gertrude Park and sat on a bench with a plaque that said ‘In memory of Albert, missed by the pigeons’. At close quarters Death stank; a mixture of salt and vinegar, turds and treacle.
Heavy breathing told me he was nodding off. He snored badly as he fell into an uncomfortable sleep; his head on one side and his mouth open wide, sucking in flying insects of the night. I also heard muffled voices from inside his cloak; the cries of babies and the pleading wails of the old.
Even though I was as wet as I was ever going to get the cold rain stung my face and I yearned to be dry and anywhere else. A crack of lightning lit the park and Death suddenly awoke. He looked at me surprised, as though he had forgotten I was with him.
He opened his cloak, the stench had gone, and instead a welcoming warmth, a release from the rain. An escape from pain. It smelt like a comfort blanket I had forgotten I once had.
He spread his arms wide and I sank inside.
When he released me we were back in the bar. I looked in the corner to see myself slumped over the table. I was quite still and my face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale. George sang along.
The bell rang.
‘Time Gentlemen pleeease!’