Three's Up by Paul Saunders (the beginning after the end read novel .txt) 📖

your house. I’ll level with you, don’t go in the bathroom, not until you’ve calmed down anyway. I don’t, err, suppose you've got a spare cigarette, have you?”

***

The old man watered his garden in peace. He sniffed the fresh morning air and tuned his ears into the birdsong. There was a scream and a crash, he jumped and span around just in time to see Jack fall out of the house next door. Jack pulled himself to his feet, glanced at the old man and shouted, wimpishly:

“’e was already dead! I swear it!”

Jack got five paces down the road before he stopped suddenly. He turned on the spot and made a grab for the old man.

“Mr. Limbey? What are you doing here?”

“Jack, I…I don’t understand. What…?”

Jack turned once more and ran back into the house. He looked around frantically, at the hallway, at the stairs.

“Fuck!”

“Jack, look what I got!”

Richard flashed him a cigarette. Jack still struggled to come to terms with what was happening, he stared at the now alive dead body, who was offering a cigarette.

“I’m sorry mate" The now alive dead body pleaded, "It was only a party. The window was left open - we broke in. We didn’t nick anything, I swear. Don’t call the Police. It was only a…have a ciggy! Don’t go in the bathroom, not ‘til you’ve calmed down anyways…”

Jack deflated and walked back out the front door, he was met by a young blonde woman carrying a suitcase.

"Susan?"

“Jack? What’s going on? Why's Mr Limbey…who's that

?”

The transvestite had followed Jack outside and had put arm round his shoulder.

“You’ll never guess what, Jackyboy! There are pictures of you an’ some blonde woman all over the place…” He spotted Susan, “Oh, hello…”

Jack looked at Richard and then guiltily at Susan, just in time to see a flailing hand heading his way; it struck him coldly across the cheek. Susan grabbed the back of Jack's hair, bending him backwards, and stared at his forehead.

“Oh, you TWAT

! What've you done to our house?”

END

George's Plight

The man stumbled forward and took his place in the circle. It was almost a fortress, palisaded with seats and braced by those ready to confess, ready to claim redemption for their shoddy ways. He was glad to be among them, coming this far was hard enough; but the underlying pangs of pity and guilt lay heavy in his stomach, swirling with his morning intake. All eyes seemed to be anchored to the ground, but he couldn't prevent his own from shuffling and dodging, avoiding contact with all others.

He knew why he came and what he had to do. It was time for courage now, not cowardice. Time for pure grit rather than fear. This seemed to be the only way to get well, he owed it to himself. He stood shakily, the eyes rose to meet him. He gazed down and drew a sharp, cold breath. It was time to testify.

"My name's…my name's…" He filled his lungs once more in order to hold his nerve. This moment had been too long coming, and he knew it. "My name's George and I am an alcoholic."

George closed his clichéd opener with a hiccup and a brief stagger leftwards. The circle stared at him in silence, not quite as welcoming as he had anticipated. For what he knew of the workings of these support groups, someone owed him a cuddle round about now. Surely they were obliged to at least clap.

"I said my name's Georged…" He slurred his words as he raised his voice to the crowd, "…I'm alcoholololic...I'mnn drunked…even now."

The circle stared once more; their eyes burnt his face like magnifying glasses in the sun. George's time-served alcoholism earned him a large tolerance to the drug; on any given day, he knew how to hide his severe lack of sobriety. Not now though, his guard eluded him as he stood exposed before his peers, naked right down to the soul. His head drooped, his shoulders swayed and he slurred freely, completely unable to disguise the fact that his body was, at this particular moment, around nine-tenths whiskey.


There was a shuffling in the group. An old lady who was sat with a book perched upon her lap leant forwards and eyed the circle. She stood up as sheepishly as George had done a moment ago.

"George. Well, well done for admitting you have a problem. They say that it's the first step to recovery."

"I know, that's why I come, see? 'cause I got no-one anymore. No wife, no kids, nothing. They all run off and left ol' Georgey 'cause I'm a drinker, but I don't wanna drinks no more."

"Yes and we're all proud of you for it, George. I'm sorry to say though that you may have taken a wrong turning." She waved a hand around the circle, "This is the Woman's Institute Book Club…in my own home. You live next door, George."

"Oh. But…next door, you say?" George deflated before her eyes and knocked and patted the wall as if to make sure.

"Although, I'm sure there'll be an Alcoholics Anonymous in the church hall."

"Oh, um…sorry…" George teetered on the spot and scanned the circle, desperately trying to focus on the bobbing images of old ladies, looking somewhat bewildered. "…ladies...I didn't mean to…book club? Can…can I join in? I'll go home an' I'll get a book."

"I'm afraid this is a ladies' club, for members of the Woman's Institute. Seeing as you're neither, I'd have to say…I'm sorry. I'll say again though, that we all wish you a speedy recovery from your…well, your problem. Don't we ladies?"

There was a murmur from the group, coupled with unified shuffling-in-seats. The spokeswoman dipped to retake her own.

"What you reading then?"

She rose again even more uncomfortably than before, looking around the circle, begging for some kind of moral support.


"Well…err…we're just about to start a new book actually, 'Of Mice and Men'. John Steinbeck."

"I got that one. He shoots his friend at the end, Lenny. He killed this girl…y'see?"

George mimed being shot in the head with his fingers. A Mexican wave of tuts reverberated around the circle; books were thrown to the ground with grimacing comments.

"Oh, right. OK. Well we hadn't got to that… had we ladies? In fact, I think I hear my husband calling. I'll be right back".

George watched her scuttle out of the room; he let himself collapse back into the chair behind him. Even in his state, he could still taste the avoidance in the air as he watched the circle dodge his gaze. The embarrassment, the guilt, the utter self-loathing and downright patheticness rose once more like fire in his throat. His intoxication only served to exaggerate his emotions and the tears began to roll.

"I'm sorry I ruined your party ladies, I don't mean to be like I am. I don't wanna drink most of the time. It hurts

when I drink. In here." He signalled to his stomach, earning a slight rumble of sympathy from some of the group. "But if I don't drinks, see? It hurts in here." This time he signalled to his head, a little more violently and confrontationally than before. The eyes dropped again. "I got something in me that tells me I gotta drink, an' if I don't then…then I gotta…"

In an instant, George's face changed from the sorry expression that seemed to hang lazily off his skull, to one taut with anger. He leapt and turned, grabbing his seat in an attempt to swing it in a fit of rage, but managed only to trip, stumble and plant the crown of his head bluntly into the wall. He fell lifelessly to the ground.

***

"My name's George, and…an' I'm an alcoholic."

Murmurs of approval were passed around the circle followed by a slow round of applause.

"I've been dry now for three days."

This was met with more unconvincing applause. George absorbed his surroundings. Two dozen pink and bleary eyes stared back, their gazes travelling through him, rather than at.

"There was some nastiness at a club."

"A night club?" Justin was the group's host. He was a reformed drinker himself, finding God in the process.

"No, a book club. Not too different from this place to be honest. A bunch of people having a good whinge about life…" He looked around the circle; his dishevelled audience smoked, sipped tea and stared blankly at the walls. "…the odd underlying whiffs of urine. Not a single job between them. The only difference is that that lot took more drugs."

"Well, we are all here for you George. Jesus is here for you."

"Really?" He looked around him, "Well, I would've thought you'd spruce the place up a bit for him. It's a shit hole."


George looked for a laugh from the zombie circle, still they just stared.

"Not in a physical sense, George. Faith will help you to heal." Justin wasn't in the circle itself, he paced around the outside, stopping sporadically to place his hands on people's shoulders. "Beating alcoholism is a long, arduous battle George, and we're all proud of you for coming this far alone."

"The bus stops right outside, so I…"

"But, I don't think you can succeed on your own, George." Justin stopped on the opposite side of the circle, facing George. "You can joke about it George, but addiction bears a great sense of arrogance and superiority. Both of which are branches of the denial tree." Justin mimed a tree shape with his hands in the air. "You look around you and see traits and symptoms in fellow addicts that you don't recognise inside of yourself…"

Justin began to round the perimeter once more, placing a hand on each head as he spoke.

"…degeneration. Vulnerability. Poor hygiene…"

The addict with the hand on his head looked up.

"…well, that one may be unrelated. The point is George that you look around the circle, at these people and you don't put yourself amongst them. As an alcoholic, you're no better than anyone here. You belong. The hardest battle for you will be changing your introspective and for that, you need us."

Justin began the round of applause to cap off his own speech, the circle joined in hypnotically.

"Sit down George."

George sat.

"Now, last time we were here, Boxer was making real progress. Why don't you stand up Boxer and continue your story?"

Boxer wiped his nose on his sleeve and strained himself to his feet, "Well, as I was sayin' I was earning a proper mint on the building site, right. Every night I was pissing…" The six foot, tattooed and shaven headed Boxer put a finger to his lips, "…err…peeing it up. Soz Justin."

"Continue", Justin spoke into George's raised eyebrows.

"Yeah, right. I was slinging 'em back left, right, north, south and any other way they was comin' from, y'see? I gotta temper on me. I ain't proud o' what I did, but…" The giant re-arranged his stance, all of a sudden looking uncomfortable. To George's surprise, tears started dropping freely from Boxer's chin. He did nothing to hold them back. "I came home one night, she got all in my face with the, 'What time you call this?' and