Qia
webboysurf
Festive
Half Pint
Nemaisare
Supermaxx
Aeolian
Yankee
Melissa
All The Rest Of Us
John Constantine’s room is a shithole.
Wall-to-wall, the floor is visible only in scraps, littered with garbage that feels like aggressive white noise in its hostile repetitiveness. Beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, scrap of carpet. Foil sheet, emptied of pills. Beer can. Empty plastic bottle of six bob voddy. Beer can. Laundry. Beer can. Beer can. Beer ca-
John wakes up. His neck hurts, and he knows this is because he has no pillow, but he is inwardly angry anyway, resenting his body for being damaged by his own poor caretaking. He rolls over onto his stomach, and the physical exertion makes him feel nauseous, and he reaches for a plastic carrier bag to vomit into. Nothing comes up, but John tastes bile in the back of his throat and spits thick saliva into the bag. He throws the bag away, another movement he immediately regrets, and while it lands atop one of the scarce few bits of carpet left, John tears rapidly through the closest pile of rubbish and fag-butts to find at least one smokeable cigarette. He comes up empty, and now his hangover, a fetid miasma of migraine, nausea and muscle ache, begins to crash in waves against him, and his scorched throat begs for further lashings.
Ignoring both, or at least ignoring the ever-increasing urge to vomit, John sits up on his mattress. His duvet, thin with no sheets, falls off his torso quietly, the change in temperature barely noticeable. He splays his legs out in front of him, kicking aside empty cans and paper wrappers with his heels as he waits for the dizziness to subside. John rubs his eyes. He stands, legs cold and shaking, and then makes a quick trip to the bathroom across the hall, where the nausea overcomes him and he empties his stomach and his bladder in quick succession.
It is while John washes his hands, mouth, and face under the cold tap in the sink that he thinks of his stash. He finishes off, patting himself dry on a stained, ragged old towel that he scoops from the floor and then returns there, and crosses the hall again back to his room. His stash is hidden behind his chest of drawers, and he has to move a pile of laundry before he can move it, but when he does he can see the cracks in the wall almost instantly. He can't remember the last time he used his stash, but to his nicotine starved mind, behind that small section of pull-away wall hides John's earthly salvation: a small white box, adorned with a simple purple square.
John feverishly works his finger into the small hole carved into the wall and pulls at the section. It is stiff but comes loose without much effort, and John quickly pushes his free hand into the compartment. His fingers find no box, but instead touch glossy paper. John seizes the object and pulls it out for inspection.
He barely glances at the old photograph before he drops it reflexively and casts his gaze away, his whole body flinching before going rigid. He is dumbfounded, all thought function seizing up and clattering to a halt. His vision swims and his heart-rate and breathing speed up involuntarily, as his surroundings seem to swell against him and push upon his skin. He places a hand on the chest of drawers to steady himself, and screws his eyes shut tight enough to hurt. His blood pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound, and though John breaths he is asphyxiating, his chest feeling like a clockwork spring with its key being wound; tighter and tighter, twisting his innards into a tense ball that grows smaller withe very turn, every gasp for air a new threat that it would burst and punch a hole clean through John's torso, killing him and letting loose every demon and insecurity, every bad though he'd ever had, for everyone to see and point and judge and laugh and ostracize and -
And then it's over. The coil unwinds, slowly but gently, and John's breath and vision come back to him. He lets go of the drawers, his knuckles brilliant white and his hand aching, and carefully, slowly, picks up the two pill boxes that stand alone atop the unit, pulling a foil rack from each and pop-pop releasing the pills from their containers. John reads the words 'citalopram' and 'clozapine' with glazed-over eyes as he swallows the tablets dry, and then takes some deep, steady breaths as he bends down to retrieve the photograph, holding it with both hands as he stands back up.
The photo is of a young girl, center frame, water behind her and the light of the sun reflected off of it to illuminate the girl from behind, giving her an ethereal golden outline. John is almost moved to tears just looking at the picture.
Instead, he tears his eyes away from the smiling face of the girl and sets the photo down next to his pills. He looks around his room, allowing the true scope and meaning of the filth to sink in, and then dresses himself in the least-smelly pair of jeans and top with the fewest stains. He pockets his pills, and then carefully folds and pockets the photo as well.
Downstairs, John pads quietly from the hallway to the kitchen in search of water and food. He drinks from the tap and takes a half-empty packet of digestives from the cupboard, and then makes his way to the front door. Behind him, through the hallway into the living room, he can see Thomas Constantine - a father to the letter of the law and no further - sound asleep on his worn and rotted old armchair. A can of lager has fallen from his hand and spilled across his lap and the floor. From here John can smell piss as well. He nervously eyes the small mound of empty cans beside Thomas, and can't help but picture the cans on his bedroom floor upstairs.
John turns around. Thomas' jacket is hung beside the door and John does not hesitate to pilfer the wallet from the inside pocket and empty it of the cash within. He turns, putting a hand on the handle of the door, and hesitates only long enough for his other hand to touch a finger to the photograph of his sister in his pocket - and then he leaves.
John sits on his arse on the kerb outside of Leicester central station, staring at the creased photo of Cheryl he holds out in front of him. The cash in his father's wallet got him from Liverpool to Nottingham, and dodging the ticket man had gotten him from Nottingham to Leicester, and here he had been caught and summarily ejected when he was found unable to pay the fine.
The sun he sits in is suddenly blocked by an approaching figure, who casts a large shadow across John as he stands watching. John looks up, squinting against the sun that shines behind the man.
"What do you want." John demands, his back bristling on habit alone. Liverpool didn't teach him to be friendly.
"You look lost."
"What's it to you, geez? Shove off."
The man chuckles, and this both irritates and disarms John.
"Thought you might need a hand."
John pauses, hesitant. This stranger's forward nature unsettles him. He is not used to kindness.
"I'm fine. Shove off." The man does not move. This annoys John. "You bored?"
"What's that photo?"
John stands up, and pockets the photo. The man is taller than John, and wider, and John is cold and hungry, but John has anger and a wild, nervous energy building inside him. John thinks he could take the man if he had to.
"None of your business." He responds, looking the stranger directly in the eyes and locking his jaw. He waits.
The man steps back, and without the sun behind his head John can see him clearly. He has a friendly face, and in his eyes is a look of genuine concern and empathy. The man holds both his hands up before putting them back in his jacket.
"Fair enough. Bad start.” He steps forward, only slightly, and extends a hand to shake. John does not take it. “Francis Chandler.”
John does not offer his name. Instead, he sits back down. Francis stays standing. After a long pause, John explains.
“I’ve come from Liverpool. Trying to get to London to visit an old friend. Cash ran out at Nottingham. Narcs caught me here. Now I’m stuck.”
Francis rubs the messy stubble of his chin and sits down next to John, taking off his flat cap.
“Well, that’s a fair bit of luck to get from Nottingham to here.” He days after a moment of deliberation. John murmurs an unenthusiastic agreement. “And I reckon you got chucked just in time too.”
John frowns and looks at Francis. He smiles, a wry little smirk that forces John to like him a little. “I’m leaving back to London today. Just escaped a visit to my ogre of a ma. Car’s parked at the station. Saw you first, though. Lucky bugger, don’t you think?”
John stares at Francis, his face conveying all manner of emotion: incredulity; confusion; distrust; disbelief; hope. He doesn’t know how to respond, or whether he should. Most of him thinks Francis is playing a cruel joke.
“If you get your jollies being a cunt I reckon you’re done for the day with this one.” He finally says, and Francis laughs. John waits for a response, but Francis doesn’t reply. “Why?”
Francis shrugs.
“You look like you could use some help.”
“I could be about to take you for all you’re worth.”
Francis laughs again. “You’re welcome to, got fuck all anyway. I’d let you drive away with me in the boot if it got me away from my mother.”
“Why do you want to help me so bad?”
Francis stands up, John does the same. Francis stands across from John, regarding his skinny frame in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a nose for good hearts. Good people. You got an aura about you. I can tell. You just need a break.”
John could cry. Francis has compassion he hasn’t felt since...that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He clears his throat.
“I think you’re full of shit.” He pauses as Francis chuckles. “But I could do with a break.”
John extends his hand to shake. Francis takes it firmly.
“John Constantine. Nice to meet ya, Francis.”
Issue One: Departure
John Constantine’s room is a shithole.
Wall-to-wall, the floor is visible only in scraps, littered with garbage that feels like aggressive white noise in its hostile repetitiveness. Beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, discarded food packet, dirty laundry, beer can, scrap of carpet. Foil sheet, emptied of pills. Beer can. Empty plastic bottle of six bob voddy. Beer can. Laundry. Beer can. Beer can. Beer ca-
John wakes up. His neck hurts, and he knows this is because he has no pillow, but he is inwardly angry anyway, resenting his body for being damaged by his own poor caretaking. He rolls over onto his stomach, and the physical exertion makes him feel nauseous, and he reaches for a plastic carrier bag to vomit into. Nothing comes up, but John tastes bile in the back of his throat and spits thick saliva into the bag. He throws the bag away, another movement he immediately regrets, and while it lands atop one of the scarce few bits of carpet left, John tears rapidly through the closest pile of rubbish and fag-butts to find at least one smokeable cigarette. He comes up empty, and now his hangover, a fetid miasma of migraine, nausea and muscle ache, begins to crash in waves against him, and his scorched throat begs for further lashings.
Ignoring both, or at least ignoring the ever-increasing urge to vomit, John sits up on his mattress. His duvet, thin with no sheets, falls off his torso quietly, the change in temperature barely noticeable. He splays his legs out in front of him, kicking aside empty cans and paper wrappers with his heels as he waits for the dizziness to subside. John rubs his eyes. He stands, legs cold and shaking, and then makes a quick trip to the bathroom across the hall, where the nausea overcomes him and he empties his stomach and his bladder in quick succession.
It is while John washes his hands, mouth, and face under the cold tap in the sink that he thinks of his stash. He finishes off, patting himself dry on a stained, ragged old towel that he scoops from the floor and then returns there, and crosses the hall again back to his room. His stash is hidden behind his chest of drawers, and he has to move a pile of laundry before he can move it, but when he does he can see the cracks in the wall almost instantly. He can't remember the last time he used his stash, but to his nicotine starved mind, behind that small section of pull-away wall hides John's earthly salvation: a small white box, adorned with a simple purple square.
John feverishly works his finger into the small hole carved into the wall and pulls at the section. It is stiff but comes loose without much effort, and John quickly pushes his free hand into the compartment. His fingers find no box, but instead touch glossy paper. John seizes the object and pulls it out for inspection.
He barely glances at the old photograph before he drops it reflexively and casts his gaze away, his whole body flinching before going rigid. He is dumbfounded, all thought function seizing up and clattering to a halt. His vision swims and his heart-rate and breathing speed up involuntarily, as his surroundings seem to swell against him and push upon his skin. He places a hand on the chest of drawers to steady himself, and screws his eyes shut tight enough to hurt. His blood pounds in his ears, drowning out all other sound, and though John breaths he is asphyxiating, his chest feeling like a clockwork spring with its key being wound; tighter and tighter, twisting his innards into a tense ball that grows smaller withe very turn, every gasp for air a new threat that it would burst and punch a hole clean through John's torso, killing him and letting loose every demon and insecurity, every bad though he'd ever had, for everyone to see and point and judge and laugh and ostracize and -
And then it's over. The coil unwinds, slowly but gently, and John's breath and vision come back to him. He lets go of the drawers, his knuckles brilliant white and his hand aching, and carefully, slowly, picks up the two pill boxes that stand alone atop the unit, pulling a foil rack from each and pop-pop releasing the pills from their containers. John reads the words 'citalopram' and 'clozapine' with glazed-over eyes as he swallows the tablets dry, and then takes some deep, steady breaths as he bends down to retrieve the photograph, holding it with both hands as he stands back up.
The photo is of a young girl, center frame, water behind her and the light of the sun reflected off of it to illuminate the girl from behind, giving her an ethereal golden outline. John is almost moved to tears just looking at the picture.
Instead, he tears his eyes away from the smiling face of the girl and sets the photo down next to his pills. He looks around his room, allowing the true scope and meaning of the filth to sink in, and then dresses himself in the least-smelly pair of jeans and top with the fewest stains. He pockets his pills, and then carefully folds and pockets the photo as well.
Downstairs, John pads quietly from the hallway to the kitchen in search of water and food. He drinks from the tap and takes a half-empty packet of digestives from the cupboard, and then makes his way to the front door. Behind him, through the hallway into the living room, he can see Thomas Constantine - a father to the letter of the law and no further - sound asleep on his worn and rotted old armchair. A can of lager has fallen from his hand and spilled across his lap and the floor. From here John can smell piss as well. He nervously eyes the small mound of empty cans beside Thomas, and can't help but picture the cans on his bedroom floor upstairs.
John turns around. Thomas' jacket is hung beside the door and John does not hesitate to pilfer the wallet from the inside pocket and empty it of the cash within. He turns, putting a hand on the handle of the door, and hesitates only long enough for his other hand to touch a finger to the photograph of his sister in his pocket - and then he leaves.
---
John was ten, Cheryl fourteen. Summer in Liverpool, as much as Liverpool could allow, and the sky was covered by a pallid shroud of grey clouds. They were collecting change - running through the streets, spotting shrapnel on the floor, on abandoned tables, in phoneboxes and ticket machines. John's pockets rattled melodically with coins as he joked, jostled, teased and cracked wise. Cheryl downplayed her amusement but could not stifle a chuckle here and there.
At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.
Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.
John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.
At a dockside cafe, Cheryl distracted the owner with meandering, protracted questions about the menu, while John took the opportunity to dip his hand into the tip jar and came up with a few more silvers than he had gone in with. Cheryl had ordered cola and sandwiches and the pair ate outside; when the owner turned to serve another customer, the pair had ran, laughing at themselves and each other as the frustrated shouts grew quieter and quieter behind them.
Back on the high street they ducked into a Boots and found a disposable camera; John emptying his pockets into Cheryl's outstretched hands so that she could count out their collection. They had only scrap left after their purchase, but they left the coins and the plastic wrapping of the camera on the counter behind them as they left with their prize. They filled the camera roll in only a few short hours, and then returned to Boots to develop the film. The lady behind the counter huffed and puffed as they turned out their pockets to pay the fee, and eventually, just waived it entirely as their performance grew too tedious to deal with any longer.
John and Cheryl sat on a street bench in the fading sunlight, thumbing eagerly through their envelope of photographs. Many were unfortunately marred by poor lighting, lens glare, or even intrusions from John's clumsy fingers as he had played with the camera. But one picture stood out: Cheryl, standing center frame with the Royal Albert Docks behind her, smiling and laughing at the John behind the camera. The clouds had opened up in a moment of serendipity to stream sunlight down onto the water, and it bounced off the surface of the docks to light up the photo from behind. To John, the photo was remarkable, perhaps the greatest accomplishment of his young life so far; it held a paradoxically fleeting and infinite moment of serenity, and seemed to capture an angelic quality about Cheryl. The photo was a gleaming representation of John's sister through John's eyes; he loved it, and her, and they spent the rest of the evening delaying their return home any way they knew how.
---
John sits on his arse on the kerb outside of Leicester central station, staring at the creased photo of Cheryl he holds out in front of him. The cash in his father's wallet got him from Liverpool to Nottingham, and dodging the ticket man had gotten him from Nottingham to Leicester, and here he had been caught and summarily ejected when he was found unable to pay the fine.
The sun he sits in is suddenly blocked by an approaching figure, who casts a large shadow across John as he stands watching. John looks up, squinting against the sun that shines behind the man.
"What do you want." John demands, his back bristling on habit alone. Liverpool didn't teach him to be friendly.
"You look lost."
"What's it to you, geez? Shove off."
The man chuckles, and this both irritates and disarms John.
"Thought you might need a hand."
John pauses, hesitant. This stranger's forward nature unsettles him. He is not used to kindness.
"I'm fine. Shove off." The man does not move. This annoys John. "You bored?"
"What's that photo?"
John stands up, and pockets the photo. The man is taller than John, and wider, and John is cold and hungry, but John has anger and a wild, nervous energy building inside him. John thinks he could take the man if he had to.
"None of your business." He responds, looking the stranger directly in the eyes and locking his jaw. He waits.
The man steps back, and without the sun behind his head John can see him clearly. He has a friendly face, and in his eyes is a look of genuine concern and empathy. The man holds both his hands up before putting them back in his jacket.
"Fair enough. Bad start.” He steps forward, only slightly, and extends a hand to shake. John does not take it. “Francis Chandler.”
John does not offer his name. Instead, he sits back down. Francis stays standing. After a long pause, John explains.
“I’ve come from Liverpool. Trying to get to London to visit an old friend. Cash ran out at Nottingham. Narcs caught me here. Now I’m stuck.”
Francis rubs the messy stubble of his chin and sits down next to John, taking off his flat cap.
“Well, that’s a fair bit of luck to get from Nottingham to here.” He days after a moment of deliberation. John murmurs an unenthusiastic agreement. “And I reckon you got chucked just in time too.”
John frowns and looks at Francis. He smiles, a wry little smirk that forces John to like him a little. “I’m leaving back to London today. Just escaped a visit to my ogre of a ma. Car’s parked at the station. Saw you first, though. Lucky bugger, don’t you think?”
John stares at Francis, his face conveying all manner of emotion: incredulity; confusion; distrust; disbelief; hope. He doesn’t know how to respond, or whether he should. Most of him thinks Francis is playing a cruel joke.
“If you get your jollies being a cunt I reckon you’re done for the day with this one.” He finally says, and Francis laughs. John waits for a response, but Francis doesn’t reply. “Why?”
Francis shrugs.
“You look like you could use some help.”
“I could be about to take you for all you’re worth.”
Francis laughs again. “You’re welcome to, got fuck all anyway. I’d let you drive away with me in the boot if it got me away from my mother.”
“Why do you want to help me so bad?”
Francis stands up, John does the same. Francis stands across from John, regarding his skinny frame in the sunlight.
“I’ve got a nose for good hearts. Good people. You got an aura about you. I can tell. You just need a break.”
John could cry. Francis has compassion he hasn’t felt since...that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He clears his throat.
“I think you’re full of shit.” He pauses as Francis chuckles. “But I could do with a break.”
John extends his hand to shake. Francis takes it firmly.
“John Constantine. Nice to meet ya, Francis.”
All The Rest Of Us
I stand in the mud for years. As the sunless days pass me by and I gaze up at starless night skies, I strain every sense I have for any sign of life. It takes several lifetimes, but eventually I hear it: a blunt, rhythmic thudding, somewhere in the distance beyond the mud. There was no source that I could see; but the thudding was all there was, and so I moved towards it. Slowly, at first, every step demanding all my body has to give to wrench my foot from the grip of the mire and place it forwards, plunging down again into the muck and again the momentous effort to bring the other foot with me...but at the same time I glide effortlessly forwards without movement, the mud motionless around me as I sail on. I see both. I do both. The thudding gets louder as I persist.
I am at the centre of the swamp. There is a small grove of scorched trees here, little more than blackened trunks and a few branches between them. They form a circle around a singular mound of dirt, upon which rests a wooden block, stained with blood, muck, ooze and foul scum. The thudding is at its loudest, and as I listen to it I can begin to discern figures surrounding the block. They look roughly human in a crude manner - but their outlines are frayed and warping, their faces are blank and featureless but radiate hatred, and I can see each of them holds a cleaver, chopping incessantly at something upon that filthy block. They hurt to look at, but I peer closer, desperate to see the meat they are butchering. I vomit when I finally make out what lays upon their table.
It’s me. I lie on the table, every blow of the cleaver carving away at my body. They start at my feet and I cannot move as every landing of the blade bloodlessly hacks away a sliver of flesh, only for the cleavers to rise and fall again. Another figure at the end of the of the block tears away each strip and tosses it behind itself into a dark hole in the ground. I thrash and struggle and attempt to break free but I am unable to move as the cleavers move up my body and the chopping grows louder until it is all there is; I can only watch as I am portioned up into neat sections and discarded into the hole.
As the last cleaver lands across my eyes the hole behind the last figure opens up and envelopes the world. The figures, the trees, the block - it all melts away as I fall, now little more than remnants of a spirit forgotten. My fall is long and gentle, a slow sink into an inky darkness, but eventually it ceases and my ethereal feet touch solid black. In front of me is a woman, back faced to me while she quietly weeps into her hands. In front of her is a bloodied pile of viscera, the scraps of my body cut, quartered and discarded. I reach out to touch her, to console her of my death, to comfort her that I am not all gone - but my hands fall through her. She turns. She has my face. I see through her eyes as her arms raise and take a tight grasp around my neck. I can only watch as she slowly strangles what it left of me.
John wakes sharply with a shout and startles Francis, who swerves the car as he involuntarily pulls the steering wheel a bit. The car on the inside lane blares their horn and Francis swears out the window, before he settles himself and gets comfortable again. John quietly breathes deep and slow, and holds a hand to his chest as he calms his pulse and anchors himself on his surroundings. He is in the passenger seat of Francis’ car, and they are just outside London, travelling on the M1 towards the city proper. Maybe an hour left to go. John’s been asleep since Milton Keynes.
“Bad dream there?” Francis asks, and John frowns to himself trying to recall the details. Dread fills him as he searches his mind and he quickly tucks the emotion away in a dark corner.
“Horrendous. Can’t remember it now.” John replies. Francis nods in that wise-looking way. John shifts in his seat and fishes for the photo of Cheryl out of his pocket - his memories of his sister are fresh as ever, and he looks over the picture trying to shake the despair he feels at seeing her face. The dream eludes him, but scraps of Cheryl, of dread, and of an immutable oncoming disaster linger with him. Francis looks over John’s shoulder, curiosity trumping privacy.
“Who’ve you got there then? Old friend? Paramour?” He puts an extended, exaggerated tone on ‘paramour’ that irritates John. “That who you’re off to see?”
John pauses, wondering how best to respond. He has not shared any aspect of his personal life with anyone since Cheryl’s disappearance, and it almost feels like he has forgotten how.
“She’s my sister. Cheryl Constantine. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
Francis nods again. “Moved away? Or fallen out of touch? Can’t say I like to spend much time with my family.”
John hesitates , and then decides to be done with it. “She disappeared. Nearly two years ago now. Coppers couldn’t find anything. Thought my father had done it for a while but...probably the only thing he’s genuinely clean on. Missing presumed dead.”
Francis swallows the confession quietly and surveys the road ahead as he digests. When he replies, he asks only one question. “Do you think she’s dead?”
John takes a long moment to search his core. He hasn’t dwelled this long on Cheryl since he got out of Ravenscar. It hurts in a way that feels cold inside. He had never considered that she may be dead after all, that closure would never come and his life would be forever defined by the hole she had left in it. But something stirs inside him and it is with a resolute and absolute confidence that he says: “No. She’s alive.”
Francis draws a deep breath. “Alright then.”
They drive for a bit longer; then Francis changes the subject, hoping to lighten the atmosphere in the car. “Who you off to see then? This old chum of yours.”
“Gary Lester.” John pauses, but Francis doesn’t respond, so John elaborates just to fill the silence. “We used to go to school together, all three of us. Weirdos, we were. Those kids who drew spells on each other in biro during class and made oujia boards on our school books. Never knew anyone else other than Gary who liked the macabre like I did, and I think Cheryl just humoured me so I didn’t feel like so much of a freak. And we were all into our punk. Used to dream that we could cast some magic to turn us into rockstars. ‘Mucous Membrane’, we would’ve called ourselves. Soon grew up, though. And then when Cheryl went missing...we were all out of our minds. Said some things I regret. Made some cruel accusations and poked at open secrets. His mum moved him to London and we haven’t spoken since. Wrote him some letters while I was…” John pauses. He’s not sure how much he should open up yet. “...away, but never got anything back. If he’s still around, I need to repair what’s left. Make my apologies. Find some closure. Un-burn the bridges.”
Francis gives John a look of respect. “That’s some very noble honesty there, Johnno. Takes a lot to allow that humility in yourself. When do you plan to go see him?”
John shrugs. “Dunno. Day’s getting on now. Guess it’ll be tomorrow.”
“You got anywhere to stay when we get to the city?”
John shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything or look at Francis.
“Got a free sofa. And I’m still off work tomorrow so I can give you a lift to the address. And to the hospital after, if needs be.”
John feels the same warm swell of gratitude again, and envisions a tether between himself and Francis. He feels an innate sense of trust in the London cabbie, and hopes that Francis feels the same in him. John nods.
“Yes, please. Thank you. You’re being...very kind.”
“It’s no bother. You seem a decent bloke.”
“All the same. Thank you, Francis.”
“You’re welcome, John. And call me Chas. All my friends do.”
“Chas.” John repeats, nodding. He smiles, for perhaps the first time since he went into Ravenscar. The smile quickly turns into a scream of fear as John is forced to brace himself against the door as Chas brakes and swerves across all three lanes of the motorway to gun down a slip road to services. He cuts off a lorry as he does so and the horn from the front cab pierces through John, although Chas only responds with more swears and gestures out the window as they accelerate away and into the carpark. John’s face is a picture of stunned fear as Chas parks up, and Chas chuckles as he pulls the handbrake up and takes a look at John as he steps out of the car.
“Sorry pal. Got distracted and nearly missed this turn off. Last whoppers before the city. Can’t be helped.”
John just blinks, and then laughs a deep, long laugh while Chas watches, puzzled but amused.
Issue Two: Companions
A DREAM
~~~~~
I am curled into a fetal ball, spinning and kicking aimlessly in a void of bright nothingness. I can’t see - my eyelids refuse to open and I have not been granted eyes for sight regardless - but all around me, on all sides pressing against my skin, colours and light flows through this shared liminal space and onwards through seams in reality. Claustrophobia settles in and only gains ground against my mind as I feel the space shrink and trap me, my muscles screaming against themselves as I push outwards against invisible walls, trying to postpone my fate but failing unquestionably. The void freezes my chest in place and I cannot draw breath into my lungs, and I am on the verge of asphyxiation when the nothingness opens up beneath me and spits me out like primordial ooze, a stain upon the carpet. I can stand, with difficulty. I am knee-high in thick black mud, and the cold mire clings to my skin. There is nothing here, just myself and the mud, a bog that spans as far as the horizon and far over. ~~~~~
I stand in the mud for years. As the sunless days pass me by and I gaze up at starless night skies, I strain every sense I have for any sign of life. It takes several lifetimes, but eventually I hear it: a blunt, rhythmic thudding, somewhere in the distance beyond the mud. There was no source that I could see; but the thudding was all there was, and so I moved towards it. Slowly, at first, every step demanding all my body has to give to wrench my foot from the grip of the mire and place it forwards, plunging down again into the muck and again the momentous effort to bring the other foot with me...but at the same time I glide effortlessly forwards without movement, the mud motionless around me as I sail on. I see both. I do both. The thudding gets louder as I persist.
I am at the centre of the swamp. There is a small grove of scorched trees here, little more than blackened trunks and a few branches between them. They form a circle around a singular mound of dirt, upon which rests a wooden block, stained with blood, muck, ooze and foul scum. The thudding is at its loudest, and as I listen to it I can begin to discern figures surrounding the block. They look roughly human in a crude manner - but their outlines are frayed and warping, their faces are blank and featureless but radiate hatred, and I can see each of them holds a cleaver, chopping incessantly at something upon that filthy block. They hurt to look at, but I peer closer, desperate to see the meat they are butchering. I vomit when I finally make out what lays upon their table.
It’s me. I lie on the table, every blow of the cleaver carving away at my body. They start at my feet and I cannot move as every landing of the blade bloodlessly hacks away a sliver of flesh, only for the cleavers to rise and fall again. Another figure at the end of the of the block tears away each strip and tosses it behind itself into a dark hole in the ground. I thrash and struggle and attempt to break free but I am unable to move as the cleavers move up my body and the chopping grows louder until it is all there is; I can only watch as I am portioned up into neat sections and discarded into the hole.
As the last cleaver lands across my eyes the hole behind the last figure opens up and envelopes the world. The figures, the trees, the block - it all melts away as I fall, now little more than remnants of a spirit forgotten. My fall is long and gentle, a slow sink into an inky darkness, but eventually it ceases and my ethereal feet touch solid black. In front of me is a woman, back faced to me while she quietly weeps into her hands. In front of her is a bloodied pile of viscera, the scraps of my body cut, quartered and discarded. I reach out to touch her, to console her of my death, to comfort her that I am not all gone - but my hands fall through her. She turns. She has my face. I see through her eyes as her arms raise and take a tight grasp around my neck. I can only watch as she slowly strangles what it left of me.
~~~~~
John wakes sharply with a shout and startles Francis, who swerves the car as he involuntarily pulls the steering wheel a bit. The car on the inside lane blares their horn and Francis swears out the window, before he settles himself and gets comfortable again. John quietly breathes deep and slow, and holds a hand to his chest as he calms his pulse and anchors himself on his surroundings. He is in the passenger seat of Francis’ car, and they are just outside London, travelling on the M1 towards the city proper. Maybe an hour left to go. John’s been asleep since Milton Keynes.
“Bad dream there?” Francis asks, and John frowns to himself trying to recall the details. Dread fills him as he searches his mind and he quickly tucks the emotion away in a dark corner.
“Horrendous. Can’t remember it now.” John replies. Francis nods in that wise-looking way. John shifts in his seat and fishes for the photo of Cheryl out of his pocket - his memories of his sister are fresh as ever, and he looks over the picture trying to shake the despair he feels at seeing her face. The dream eludes him, but scraps of Cheryl, of dread, and of an immutable oncoming disaster linger with him. Francis looks over John’s shoulder, curiosity trumping privacy.
“Who’ve you got there then? Old friend? Paramour?” He puts an extended, exaggerated tone on ‘paramour’ that irritates John. “That who you’re off to see?”
John pauses, wondering how best to respond. He has not shared any aspect of his personal life with anyone since Cheryl’s disappearance, and it almost feels like he has forgotten how.
“She’s my sister. Cheryl Constantine. I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
Francis nods again. “Moved away? Or fallen out of touch? Can’t say I like to spend much time with my family.”
John hesitates , and then decides to be done with it. “She disappeared. Nearly two years ago now. Coppers couldn’t find anything. Thought my father had done it for a while but...probably the only thing he’s genuinely clean on. Missing presumed dead.”
Francis swallows the confession quietly and surveys the road ahead as he digests. When he replies, he asks only one question. “Do you think she’s dead?”
John takes a long moment to search his core. He hasn’t dwelled this long on Cheryl since he got out of Ravenscar. It hurts in a way that feels cold inside. He had never considered that she may be dead after all, that closure would never come and his life would be forever defined by the hole she had left in it. But something stirs inside him and it is with a resolute and absolute confidence that he says: “No. She’s alive.”
Francis draws a deep breath. “Alright then.”
They drive for a bit longer; then Francis changes the subject, hoping to lighten the atmosphere in the car. “Who you off to see then? This old chum of yours.”
“Gary Lester.” John pauses, but Francis doesn’t respond, so John elaborates just to fill the silence. “We used to go to school together, all three of us. Weirdos, we were. Those kids who drew spells on each other in biro during class and made oujia boards on our school books. Never knew anyone else other than Gary who liked the macabre like I did, and I think Cheryl just humoured me so I didn’t feel like so much of a freak. And we were all into our punk. Used to dream that we could cast some magic to turn us into rockstars. ‘Mucous Membrane’, we would’ve called ourselves. Soon grew up, though. And then when Cheryl went missing...we were all out of our minds. Said some things I regret. Made some cruel accusations and poked at open secrets. His mum moved him to London and we haven’t spoken since. Wrote him some letters while I was…” John pauses. He’s not sure how much he should open up yet. “...away, but never got anything back. If he’s still around, I need to repair what’s left. Make my apologies. Find some closure. Un-burn the bridges.”
Francis gives John a look of respect. “That’s some very noble honesty there, Johnno. Takes a lot to allow that humility in yourself. When do you plan to go see him?”
John shrugs. “Dunno. Day’s getting on now. Guess it’ll be tomorrow.”
“You got anywhere to stay when we get to the city?”
John shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything or look at Francis.
“Got a free sofa. And I’m still off work tomorrow so I can give you a lift to the address. And to the hospital after, if needs be.”
John feels the same warm swell of gratitude again, and envisions a tether between himself and Francis. He feels an innate sense of trust in the London cabbie, and hopes that Francis feels the same in him. John nods.
“Yes, please. Thank you. You’re being...very kind.”
“It’s no bother. You seem a decent bloke.”
“All the same. Thank you, Francis.”
“You’re welcome, John. And call me Chas. All my friends do.”
“Chas.” John repeats, nodding. He smiles, for perhaps the first time since he went into Ravenscar. The smile quickly turns into a scream of fear as John is forced to brace himself against the door as Chas brakes and swerves across all three lanes of the motorway to gun down a slip road to services. He cuts off a lorry as he does so and the horn from the front cab pierces through John, although Chas only responds with more swears and gestures out the window as they accelerate away and into the carpark. John’s face is a picture of stunned fear as Chas parks up, and Chas chuckles as he pulls the handbrake up and takes a look at John as he steps out of the car.
“Sorry pal. Got distracted and nearly missed this turn off. Last whoppers before the city. Can’t be helped.”
John just blinks, and then laughs a deep, long laugh while Chas watches, puzzled but amused.
All The Rest Of Us
John twists and turns and rolls beneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable stretched across Chas’ sofa. He has a pillow, which is an immediate improvement to his past sleeping arrangements, and the blanket is thick, and heavy, and keeps him warm against the cold morning air. He takes these small blessings and uses them as a shield against his sore back and stiff neck. He curses beneath his breath and gives up, sitting up proper on the sofa and gathering up his blanket around his shoulders. Morning light drifts lazily through half-pulled curtains and John takes a big deep breath of cool, fresh air, free from the stink of rubbish, dirty laundry, cigarette ash and stale beer. He feels awake, more rested than he has been in weeks, and the clarity of his consciousness strikes him unprepared. John realises the difference slowly, but with deep remorse when he does: he is not hungover.
From the kitchen he hears metal and ceramic clattering and then low, harsh swears. He stands from the sofa, clinging to his blanket as his modesty’s only protection, and slowly pads across the living room to the doorway. He peeks around the wall and is greeted by the back of Chas, rooting around in a feral, feverish manner. He tears through drawers and cupboards with animalistic abandon, while occasionally rubbing at his wet hair with what John can now see is a tea-towel. Chas is obviously searching for something. John clears his throat and Chas jumps and swears louder, but turns around to see John giving him a small, awkward wave with one hand while the other holds up his blanket.
“You alright there, chuck?” John asks, giving a nervous half-smile. Chas turns around to continue searching while he replies.
“Lookin’ for the damn kettle. Can’t start my day without a decent cuppa down my gullet. But uh, the missus appears to not be here anymore, along with a bunch of my STUFF!”
John jumps as Chas suddenly yells in frustration.
“Including the kettle, which I know she only took to spite me. And all the lamps. And all the towels!” He pulls on the damp tea-towel hanging around his neck as he explains. John can’t help but smirk.
“Why’d she run out on ya? You seem a nice enough fella.”
Chas gives up looking, and instead pulls out a metal cooking pot and fills it with water from the tap.
“Petty squabbles, mostly. Fightin’ over this and that, and then over fightin’. Big one was my mother, as the hag always is. Disagreements on how much participation in her ongoing care we should have.”
“I’m sorry about that. Can’t be easy to choose between family and romance.”
Chas shrugs, turning the stove on and setting the pot of water on top.
“Ah, she made it clear well enough before I left that she wouldn’t be here when I got back if I went. God knows what made me choose me mam over her. Spite. Same as why she took the kettle.”
“Spite is a strong motivator.” John agrees, half-musing. Chas just nods, and then takes two mugs and sets them on the counter-top. He fetches two tins, one filled with coffee and one with teabags, and points them both at John. John points at the teabags, and Chas prepares both mugs.
Chas talks as he waits for the water in the pot to start bubbling.
“I took the liberty of chucking your stuff in the tumbler while you was sleepin’. Don’t mean to be rude but, I noticed the stains.”
John rolls this around in his head, deciding if he’s offended or not. He isn’t. He does gesture to the blanket that’s still covering him, though, and Chas waves it away.
“Don’t worry about that - I put some clothes out in the bathroom you can borrow. Probably be a bit big on your scrawny bum but should suit you well enough for now. And here-” Chas throws John a fresh tea-towel, which he catches in one hand while nearly fumbling the blanket in the other- “feel free to take a shower if’n you want to. Cuppa’s’ll be up soon enough.”
John chuckles and thanks Chas, feeling that warm swell in his chest again towards this man who is quickly becoming the closest companion he has ever had, and turns around to hobble off down the hallway in the direction of the shower. The time he spent at home among his and his father’s shared filth managed to numb his somewhat to the grime and dirt that had built up around him; but now, as he walks down the hallway and takes the first left into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him and can feel the grease and sweat coming alive across his body, crawling up and down his skin and matting his hair to his scalp. The thought of scalding water to viciously blast away this slime feels divine.
John drops the blanket in the furthest corner of the bathroom from the shower and steps over the rim of the bath, pulling the curtain across behind him. He stares at the knobs, spends a moment to work out which does what, and then twists and pulls and is assaulted by ice-water upon his forehead which cascades down his chest, gives him a shiver as it passes by his nether regions, and then slowly dribbles down his calves as it warms up and flattens the goosebumps on his arms. The room quickly fills with steam as John enjoys the hot water bouncing off his scalp and forming rivulets down his back. He pushes his head back and lets the water fill his vision with myriad psychedelic patterns and colours through closed eyes. The shower cleanses him physically and spiritually; he wiggles his toes as memories of Ravenscar swim in and out of his mind.
John pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes as he wills these memories away. It does him no good to dwell on dark times. He has done too much of that already. He grabs the sponge and washes his body down in the warm water, feeling that old bubbling despair in his belly but not letting it take advantage. The water washes away his grime and grit and takes some of his anguish for good measure as well. He survived the darkness, and he will not allow himself to be undone by its echoes.
John exits the shower feeling like a man wading towards the river banks. The tea towel, though inadequate for the task at hand, still performs admirably despite its shortcomings, and John is only lightly moist as he slips on the clothes Chas left for him atop the toilet cistern: a pair of simple dark gray slacks, and a plain white button-up shirt. The trousers fit him around the waist, although are an inch or two too long in the leg, and the shirt hangs off his malnourished frame in a conspicuous manner. John tucks it in tight to the trousers and rolls the sleeves up until they rest comfortably at his elbows, but as he looks at himself in the mirror - gaunt face with cheekbones sticking out and eyes shadowed, his hair back to its natural spiky stark blonde with all its grease washed out, and the shirt loose around the collar with room in the gut - John is struck with the image of a boy wearing his father’s suit to a funeral. He cuffs the trousers, which haphazardly resolves the length issue, and decides to be grateful for the shirt, rather than bitter that the borrowed clothes of a man maybe a foot taller than him do not fit like a tailored suit.
John leaves the bathroom, wet tea towel in hand, and re-enters the front room. The curtains have been pulled back to allow the light fully in, although a familiar pit-pat upon the glass signals yet another day of rain. Chas sits on the sofa sipping at a cup of dark tea from a stained mug, John’s mug next to him on the table. Steam drifts lazily up. Chas’ free hand is wrapped in the tea towel he had been using to dry his hair. John points at it, arching an eyebrow instead of verbalising the question.
“Spilled some water as I was makin’ the tea. Cooking pots aren’t traditionally used for cuppa’s. Yours is all made up - no milk or sugar though, I’m afraid. Think the missus took those too.”
John waves the apology away and takes a seat next to Chas on the sofa. He cups the mug of tea in both hands, enjoying the warmth radiating into his palms, takes a deep breath of the vapours as he brings the ceramic to his lips. The tea is earthy and pure and opens up his sinuses, and the taste splashes across his tongue as he gulps it down, warm and grounded and calming. John is blown away at how wonderful the flavour is, and realises that it is because this is the first liquid past his teeth in the last fortnight that is neither lukewarm lager or pop that’s more voddy than cola.
A wave of self-loathing washes over John and he gags silently, masking the dry-heave in a throaty cough to save face in front of Chas. He left Ravenscar with Cheryl’s memory like a crystal bauble hanging in his mind, a reminder to do right and do better, to look after himself, to believe he deserved to be cared for and loved. Instead he’d gone home via the local offy and spent his meager release bursary on the most efficient alcoholic-units-for-money he could muster and drank away the rest of the day shut up in his childhood bedroom. Thomas was aware but he simply didn’t care. He had wasted 2 weeks engaging in below-petty crime to avoid sobriety at all costs. He hadn't even thought of his sister until he rediscovered the photo two days ago. He failed himself. He failed Cheryl.
It’s not failing if you learn, Johnny.
John whips his head around at Chas, anger and disbelief in his eyes.
“What did you just say to me?!” John demands. Chas is frozen mid-sip, eyes wide and carefully considering the situation. He puts his mug down slowly before he responds.
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You just called me Johnny. No one calls me Johnny.”
“I didn’t call you anythin’! I didn’t call you, simple as!”
John pauses and Chas studies his face.
“You okay there chuck? You’ve come over all dewy-eyed…”
John turns his head away and fiercely rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands, pushing tears away before they fall.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” John stands up, jostling the table in his haste. He quickly scans the room, not sure what he’s looking for. His breathing and heartbeat are high tempo and getting out of control and he can feel his cheeks blushing from the rush of blood to his head; he kneels down, pushing a hand beneath the sofa and coming out with the pills he had stashed there last night, out of sight from Chas for fear of stigma and shame. John sits back down and quickly takes his dosage with the dregs of his tea, trying to calm his mind. He startles when Chas lays a firm hand on his shoulder. John looks at him for a brief moment, and then takes a few deep, racking sobs before ceasing just as sharply, head buried in his hands as Chas delivers a few reassuring pats.
“You’re alright lad. Just a passing storm.”
Issue Three: Storm
John twists and turns and rolls beneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable stretched across Chas’ sofa. He has a pillow, which is an immediate improvement to his past sleeping arrangements, and the blanket is thick, and heavy, and keeps him warm against the cold morning air. He takes these small blessings and uses them as a shield against his sore back and stiff neck. He curses beneath his breath and gives up, sitting up proper on the sofa and gathering up his blanket around his shoulders. Morning light drifts lazily through half-pulled curtains and John takes a big deep breath of cool, fresh air, free from the stink of rubbish, dirty laundry, cigarette ash and stale beer. He feels awake, more rested than he has been in weeks, and the clarity of his consciousness strikes him unprepared. John realises the difference slowly, but with deep remorse when he does: he is not hungover.
From the kitchen he hears metal and ceramic clattering and then low, harsh swears. He stands from the sofa, clinging to his blanket as his modesty’s only protection, and slowly pads across the living room to the doorway. He peeks around the wall and is greeted by the back of Chas, rooting around in a feral, feverish manner. He tears through drawers and cupboards with animalistic abandon, while occasionally rubbing at his wet hair with what John can now see is a tea-towel. Chas is obviously searching for something. John clears his throat and Chas jumps and swears louder, but turns around to see John giving him a small, awkward wave with one hand while the other holds up his blanket.
“You alright there, chuck?” John asks, giving a nervous half-smile. Chas turns around to continue searching while he replies.
“Lookin’ for the damn kettle. Can’t start my day without a decent cuppa down my gullet. But uh, the missus appears to not be here anymore, along with a bunch of my STUFF!”
John jumps as Chas suddenly yells in frustration.
“Including the kettle, which I know she only took to spite me. And all the lamps. And all the towels!” He pulls on the damp tea-towel hanging around his neck as he explains. John can’t help but smirk.
“Why’d she run out on ya? You seem a nice enough fella.”
Chas gives up looking, and instead pulls out a metal cooking pot and fills it with water from the tap.
“Petty squabbles, mostly. Fightin’ over this and that, and then over fightin’. Big one was my mother, as the hag always is. Disagreements on how much participation in her ongoing care we should have.”
“I’m sorry about that. Can’t be easy to choose between family and romance.”
Chas shrugs, turning the stove on and setting the pot of water on top.
“Ah, she made it clear well enough before I left that she wouldn’t be here when I got back if I went. God knows what made me choose me mam over her. Spite. Same as why she took the kettle.”
“Spite is a strong motivator.” John agrees, half-musing. Chas just nods, and then takes two mugs and sets them on the counter-top. He fetches two tins, one filled with coffee and one with teabags, and points them both at John. John points at the teabags, and Chas prepares both mugs.
Chas talks as he waits for the water in the pot to start bubbling.
“I took the liberty of chucking your stuff in the tumbler while you was sleepin’. Don’t mean to be rude but, I noticed the stains.”
John rolls this around in his head, deciding if he’s offended or not. He isn’t. He does gesture to the blanket that’s still covering him, though, and Chas waves it away.
“Don’t worry about that - I put some clothes out in the bathroom you can borrow. Probably be a bit big on your scrawny bum but should suit you well enough for now. And here-” Chas throws John a fresh tea-towel, which he catches in one hand while nearly fumbling the blanket in the other- “feel free to take a shower if’n you want to. Cuppa’s’ll be up soon enough.”
John chuckles and thanks Chas, feeling that warm swell in his chest again towards this man who is quickly becoming the closest companion he has ever had, and turns around to hobble off down the hallway in the direction of the shower. The time he spent at home among his and his father’s shared filth managed to numb his somewhat to the grime and dirt that had built up around him; but now, as he walks down the hallway and takes the first left into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him and can feel the grease and sweat coming alive across his body, crawling up and down his skin and matting his hair to his scalp. The thought of scalding water to viciously blast away this slime feels divine.
John drops the blanket in the furthest corner of the bathroom from the shower and steps over the rim of the bath, pulling the curtain across behind him. He stares at the knobs, spends a moment to work out which does what, and then twists and pulls and is assaulted by ice-water upon his forehead which cascades down his chest, gives him a shiver as it passes by his nether regions, and then slowly dribbles down his calves as it warms up and flattens the goosebumps on his arms. The room quickly fills with steam as John enjoys the hot water bouncing off his scalp and forming rivulets down his back. He pushes his head back and lets the water fill his vision with myriad psychedelic patterns and colours through closed eyes. The shower cleanses him physically and spiritually; he wiggles his toes as memories of Ravenscar swim in and out of his mind.
Showers as punishment, dirt pressure-scrubbed from skin via an icy hose, flesh pink and raw after the staff had turned the torrents upon you; the battering only ceasing once the fun had run out. The first shower John had ‘taken’ within that catacomb of a building made him weep from the soreness and cold. The second had been a half-hour later, to ‘wash the tear-stains from his scrubs’. He had not cried again. Only sat in silence, staring at the wall and thinking of happier times as the still air was pierced by the steady drip-drip of cold water from his clothes, soaking into his bunk. He slept upon a damp mattress for three days, on the fourth electing to sleep on the floor instead. On the fifth day his mattress was taken and his sheets were changed, but he slept on the floor regardless, a silent protest that only served as self-sabotage. Day six he went without food, as he showed no gratitude for the amenities the hospital granted to him.
John pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes as he wills these memories away. It does him no good to dwell on dark times. He has done too much of that already. He grabs the sponge and washes his body down in the warm water, feeling that old bubbling despair in his belly but not letting it take advantage. The water washes away his grime and grit and takes some of his anguish for good measure as well. He survived the darkness, and he will not allow himself to be undone by its echoes.
John exits the shower feeling like a man wading towards the river banks. The tea towel, though inadequate for the task at hand, still performs admirably despite its shortcomings, and John is only lightly moist as he slips on the clothes Chas left for him atop the toilet cistern: a pair of simple dark gray slacks, and a plain white button-up shirt. The trousers fit him around the waist, although are an inch or two too long in the leg, and the shirt hangs off his malnourished frame in a conspicuous manner. John tucks it in tight to the trousers and rolls the sleeves up until they rest comfortably at his elbows, but as he looks at himself in the mirror - gaunt face with cheekbones sticking out and eyes shadowed, his hair back to its natural spiky stark blonde with all its grease washed out, and the shirt loose around the collar with room in the gut - John is struck with the image of a boy wearing his father’s suit to a funeral. He cuffs the trousers, which haphazardly resolves the length issue, and decides to be grateful for the shirt, rather than bitter that the borrowed clothes of a man maybe a foot taller than him do not fit like a tailored suit.
John leaves the bathroom, wet tea towel in hand, and re-enters the front room. The curtains have been pulled back to allow the light fully in, although a familiar pit-pat upon the glass signals yet another day of rain. Chas sits on the sofa sipping at a cup of dark tea from a stained mug, John’s mug next to him on the table. Steam drifts lazily up. Chas’ free hand is wrapped in the tea towel he had been using to dry his hair. John points at it, arching an eyebrow instead of verbalising the question.
“Spilled some water as I was makin’ the tea. Cooking pots aren’t traditionally used for cuppa’s. Yours is all made up - no milk or sugar though, I’m afraid. Think the missus took those too.”
John waves the apology away and takes a seat next to Chas on the sofa. He cups the mug of tea in both hands, enjoying the warmth radiating into his palms, takes a deep breath of the vapours as he brings the ceramic to his lips. The tea is earthy and pure and opens up his sinuses, and the taste splashes across his tongue as he gulps it down, warm and grounded and calming. John is blown away at how wonderful the flavour is, and realises that it is because this is the first liquid past his teeth in the last fortnight that is neither lukewarm lager or pop that’s more voddy than cola.
A wave of self-loathing washes over John and he gags silently, masking the dry-heave in a throaty cough to save face in front of Chas. He left Ravenscar with Cheryl’s memory like a crystal bauble hanging in his mind, a reminder to do right and do better, to look after himself, to believe he deserved to be cared for and loved. Instead he’d gone home via the local offy and spent his meager release bursary on the most efficient alcoholic-units-for-money he could muster and drank away the rest of the day shut up in his childhood bedroom. Thomas was aware but he simply didn’t care. He had wasted 2 weeks engaging in below-petty crime to avoid sobriety at all costs. He hadn't even thought of his sister until he rediscovered the photo two days ago. He failed himself. He failed Cheryl.
It’s not failing if you learn, Johnny.
John whips his head around at Chas, anger and disbelief in his eyes.
“What did you just say to me?!” John demands. Chas is frozen mid-sip, eyes wide and carefully considering the situation. He puts his mug down slowly before he responds.
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You just called me Johnny. No one calls me Johnny.”
“I didn’t call you anythin’! I didn’t call you, simple as!”
John pauses and Chas studies his face.
“You okay there chuck? You’ve come over all dewy-eyed…”
John turns his head away and fiercely rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands, pushing tears away before they fall.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” John stands up, jostling the table in his haste. He quickly scans the room, not sure what he’s looking for. His breathing and heartbeat are high tempo and getting out of control and he can feel his cheeks blushing from the rush of blood to his head; he kneels down, pushing a hand beneath the sofa and coming out with the pills he had stashed there last night, out of sight from Chas for fear of stigma and shame. John sits back down and quickly takes his dosage with the dregs of his tea, trying to calm his mind. He startles when Chas lays a firm hand on his shoulder. John looks at him for a brief moment, and then takes a few deep, racking sobs before ceasing just as sharply, head buried in his hands as Chas delivers a few reassuring pats.
“You’re alright lad. Just a passing storm.”
