The Pain of Glass
Glass crunched under foot as Anthony Parish stalked toward what used to be his window. He wasn't taking any chances. If they... if they were going to be coming up here, throwing things through his window then let them try it. Crunch, crunch.
“Tha's righ', der aint no glass! No glass... no... glash.” Tony knew he was wasted and he could vaguely recall that he liked being wasted because it stopped him thinking whatever thoughts it was that he didn't like to be thinking. But man, was it really worth the headaches? Sober Tony seemed to think so. Anthony could feel his glasses slipping off his nose. He looked down to follow their descent and then he leaned forward to follow it more closely. The glasses slid away from his face as if repulsed by the dark, curled moustache congealed with alcohol. I must admit when first I found myself confronted with that face, I considered jumping out the window too. The glasses hit the pavement. Tony leaned further forward still.
“Jus' a li'le cracked,” he crooned, squinting over the edge. It wasn't long before his body stumbled through the empty pane and his glasses were flattened beyond repair. It wasn't that Tony had a particularly bulky body but falling sixteen feet out of a window will do that to a pair of poor, defenceless glasses.
Smudged finger-prints in the condensation showed where Tony's hand had rested a moment earlier but he didn't feel comfortable getting that close to the glass anymore. Or a drinking glass or a mirror glass or... well any glass. It was all bad. For one month, three days and nine hours Anthony Parish had stayed away from alcohol. The reflection in the pane said it had been an agonising experience. Tony had a flat and haggard face that gave the impression of having been crushed against a brick wall at birth. A more spiteful man might have said it was a warning to Tony not to go falling out of any windows. Too bad he didn't listen. Beyond the reflection, Anthony Parish was getting his first look at me.
I stepped out of the police car and un-tucked my grubby, off-white shirt from the old pair of jeans I was wearing. I'd got them specially from a charity shop for that worn, lived-in appearance. They'd cost me all of five pounds. The trainers were free: I found those by a dumpster. Tony opened up on the first knock. I didn't like what I saw. He was a hairy sort of guy from the dark, tufted curls on his head to the black worms wriggling across his arms, coiled about his knuckles. It was awful. His finger-nails were filthy: cracked and broken, infested with maggots. His sinister moustache drooped as if even it were disappointed by what Tony saw. That's how little he thought of me. I decided then that I had to prove myself to him. Couldn't say why. He had that sort of effect on people, that compelling disregard for the fact that he was a washed-up has been.
“I'm Colin Everwood,” I announced gleefully, sticking my hand out like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Anthony ignored it.
“Tony Parish,” he said in a deep, tenor voice. “We'll take my car.” He was wearing a grey suit with a pinstripe tie and a set of tiny, silver cuff links. Crescent moons. Or so I recall. It's bloody stupid what you remember when... you know. Like the songs that were playing on the way down. Johnny Cash. Man, could he play the blues. I half expected Parish to sing along but he just tapped his short, stubby fingers a few times on that steering wheel. He didn't wear a seat-belt. I pretended not to notice. We didn't hold much conversation, the way I see it is a conversation requires two participants and the only one talking was me. I hope you don't mind if I spare myself the humiliating details.
It was a little house squashed between the other little houses. Nothing special about it except maybe the broken drain-pipe and the scratches in the white paint of the door. Tony made short work of the path, eating it up with his confident swagger, hands clasped behind his back and his body rocking back and forth.
“I'll do the talking,” he said. I should have cut him off then and asserted my authority early on but I was very much in awe of Anthony Parish, one time police officer and short term alcoholic. Still. It was my job to keep an eye on him and I really screwed that up. I'll hold my hands up to that, no shame in being honest.
The woman who opened the door was thirty-six year old taxi driver, Erin Claude. Erin was a red head. She had these long nails painted in alternating black and orange and the sort of make-up I associated with the worst members of the fairer sex. She had dark, liquid eyes and blackened lips with Gothic spirals hanging under her silver frames. She was wearing a black top with long, opaque sleeves and a pair of denim shorts over purple tights.
“We're here for the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting,” I explained awkwardly as she led us into the next room. I stared at the walls. They'd been painted with sweets. There were cupcakes and lollipops, sugar mice and parma violets. I wondered if I might find one of the other rooms decorated with bottles of alcohol.
“Take a seat,” Erin invited. I took a look at the ring of 'chairs' and frowned in distaste. There were two fat ladies in rocking chairs, a shrivelled old man in a leather arm chair, Erin on her little, brown stool, a deck chair with a red and white cover, an over-turned plastic bin and a bed. Parish and I both opted for the bed. A mistake on my part. Parish was grinning, the first smile I'd seen from him and while I tried to fathom where it had come from or why, he introduced us.
“I go by the name of Tony Brewer and this is my partner Rhee Tarde.” His hand was uncomfortably firm as he squeezed my knee. The oaf! I had begun to think he didn't own a sense of humour but now he proved me wrong. Or maybe until that moment he hadn't. Maybe it was his final hand, hurled down in an act of desperation.
“Rhee-” One of the women in the rocking chairs looked contemptuously at me, her expression mirrored perfectly by the other beside her. They were both huge, pudgy women who probably attended weight watchers together in much the same manor. I expected they'd sit and bicker, maybe gossip. I wasn't to be disappointed.
“It's Rhys actually,” I negotiated. The women turned to each other and discussed this in hooting tones.
“Well I never-”
“Tarde he says, Mr. Rhys Tarde.”
“Partners! Well I never-”
“Twice his age, surely, twice his age.”
“And did you hear about Mrs Taylor?”
“Mrs Taylor? No, what's that story?”
“Well they say...” And I'll never know what it is they say because Erin chose that moment to cough very loudly. Very, very loudly. Five heads turned to look at her.
“Well then. I had hopefully expected a greater abundance of lovely people to attend – but – if this is our lot, poppets, I suppose we'd jollily better make do. I took the casual liberty of going and creating us some little – I dare say harmless – ground rules, I hope you don't terribly mind very much.” And if you found that any easier to follow than me you must be barmy. She certainly was. A nutter, crack-job. A big fat liar too. I'll tell you something about Erin Claude, turned out she wasn't an alcoholic at all, fancy that eh? Bloody women.
“Here you go then my dears, read them through, quickly now and if we haven't any silly questions, why don't we get on with some pleasant introductions? Let's start with you, flower.” She was talking to me.
“Uh... hello, yes, good to meet you – all of you. I'm Rhys Tarde, twenty-seven and I'm an alcoholic.” Good one huh? And I'd thought myself well prepared. Idiot.
“Tut, tut. Rule number seven Rhys, I really do wish you would all kindly read the rules most carefully. We don't use that word here, now how about you tell us how you started... drinking. We'd sure be thrilled to hear.” The old man was nodding off but the two ladies managed to look enthusiastic enough and Tony flashed his teeth at me.
“Go on dear, tell them about it.” But without giving me a chance to say anything, Parish addressed the rest of the group. “It was before I met him, when he was just a spring pup. He got involved with the wrong crowd, like two peas in a pod.” Tony crushed my body toward him and rubbed my head with his knuckles. I forced a smile but wanted nothing better than to screw him over. Except I wasn't qualified for that. I was too much of a wimp to even threaten him with a bad report at this stage. That was all going to change.
“Well isn't that nice? It's going to be so lovely to participate in such a wonderful group of challenged individuals, I'm very certain we'll all be able to help each other up. Oh wakey, wakey, poppet. You're up next.” The old man opened his eyes a little wider and sat further forward on his chair. He was holding an old walking stick in one hand and I remember thinking it was almost as battered as him.
“My name'sh George Tanner and I shtarted drinking when... when my wife died. Alice died of a heart attack, God blesh her.” George was a gaunt, wily old man with a few tufts of grey hair on his head and a dot-to-dot of liver spots. He wore grey trousers high on his waist and a thread-bare blue shirt. This small introduction was all George could manage at that first meeting and it put a downer on the whole evening for me but Tony seemed to enjoy himself. I withdrew from the conversation at the first possible opportunity and set my mind to wondering how it was that Dawn and Violet could find fashionable heels to squeeze their pudgy ankles into.
It was the seventh of these weekly meetings that Anthony called me in advance. He chuckled to himself as he waited for me to answer, glugged another quarter canteen of the good old Jack. He was wearing his usual suit with the tie slackened and the shirt un-tucked. The cuff links were missing.
“Hello!” My voice wriggled happily out of the receiver and you could just hear the smile tagged on the end, right beside that exclamation mark.
“Hey, look, you think we could go separate this week?” Tony asked. It went against the agreement he made with the courts but I thought what the hell, Parish was a decent guy.
“Are you breaking up with me?” I couldn't quite reach the right note of undignified distress but I gave it a damn good shot. Already, Tony was changing me and the bastard had set me up. He chuckled and there was a short pause before he said:
“Yeah, that's a good idea. I'll see you at the meeting.” Tony hung up and finished his drink. Oblivious to all this, your strapping young narrator, dressed in his latest ensemble of the working man's clothes (somewhere between chimney sweep and pirate) set off walking down the lane.
Parish was late. I talked awkwardly with George Tanner who every now and then would rap me on the leg with his walking stick. I wasn't sure if it was excitement in his eyes, or a vindictive desire to see my legs end up in the same sorry arse state as his.
“Did I tell yoush about my trainsh yet?” George asked. I shook my head to be polite but this was at least the fourth time hearing about them.
“Gee, thoshe were the good old daysh eh? I wash a train driver in – oh, it would have been about sheventy yearsh ago, of courshe they all ran on shteam in them daysh.” How fascinating. I was greatly relieved when the front door was thrown open and Tony came stumbling into the room. More of his antics. I shook my head in amusement but that turned to a frown as I started to realise he was drunk.
“It's over!” Tony roared. Even now I'm not sure what he referred to: our relationship; sobriety; life?
“Poppet, have we been having ourselves a little of the forbidden fruit?” Erin sounded worried. I was more disappointed and I could feel my heart sinking as the pieces dropped into place.
“Darling. A word.” My tone was colder than ice. Tony seemed to find this amusing.
“Why certainly, which one would you like? I know a whole tonne of words.” His eyes gleamed with an insanity that wasn't caused by the drink and even then I was thinking selfish thoughts. I was thinking how fucking screwed I was and wondering if they'd take away my badge.
“Outside!” I snapped, pushing him toward the door. He didn't make it easy and once outside, I was disgusted to see the twin faces of Dawn and Violet pressed up against the window. Vultures.
“Why?” It had to be asked.
“That's your problem, that is. You're... you're always asking all the wrong questions.”
“You're an arsehole you know. Not many people get a second chance like this but oh no, you're above it all aren't you, the rules don't apply to you because you think you're so bloody clever with your witty quips and your fancy, Nancy suit-”
“What's wrong with my suit, I think this is a very nice suit, came all the way-”
“Stop it! You're... you're not even drunk are you?”
“Not very much so,” Tony admitted. He deflated like a popped balloon and we stood facing each other, standing on new ground. It didn't feel like a fight to me. It felt like goodbye.
“Why?” I asked again.
“People die, Colin. Every day.”
“But why?” Tony sucked air in through his teeth and then let it all out again. He tried another tact.
“What did you know about me, when they put you on my case?”
“The important stuff.” I shrugged, trying to bring to mind that first impression of him but the second kept getting in the way. The hairy arms, the dirty finger nails and that horrid moustache. “You were big. A legend. People requested transfers to your department just for a chance at being your next partner.” I expected a cocky grin or even a boastful agreement but the nod he gave was slow and humble. I tried to rouse him to his senses: “Looks like I got lucky huh?” I winked and grinned, elbowing him gently. If he wasn't really drunk then this would work out just fine. Or so I tried to tell myself. If he wasn't really drunk, he wasn't breaking court orders and if he wasn't really drunk, I hadn't failed in my capacity as his custodian.
“I had a lot of partners. Think it over. The police force isn't a pretty place to be. They tell you it's all about honour and duty but look, look at us! A right pair of poor sods aren't we? You're stuck tailing around after a cynical, old man and I... I...”
“You got stuck with me? Is that it huh? Well screw you!” I wish I hadn't left it like that but I turned my back on him and stomped through the house.
“Rhys, is everything okay with Tony? It sounded like you were having a horrible row out there!” Dawn tried to pet my arm but I smacked her hand away. The sound of Parish singing in the garden boiled my blood.
“It's Colin!” I shouted. “Not Rhys, not Tarde and it never has been. Colin Everwood. Always! And you-” I turned to Erin who was mopping at her eyes with a handkerchief and trying very hard to hide behind a mug of tea.
“Well how rude.”
“Yes, very. I expect he's been drinking too.” Violet sniffed, sticking her pert nose up in the air.
“You can stuff your bloody stupid social club. I don't work as a male stripper, I'm not gay and I'm most certainly not an alcoholic!”
“I liked him better when he was Rhys.”
“Oh yes, much better. Colin's such an ugly name.”
“I had a friend called Colin once and you'll never guess what he got up to with the neighbour's dog.”
“Oh?”
“Shut up, just... just clam down! Please. Can't you all be quiet? I... I have something to say.” Erin said it quietly, in a shaky tone. The unexpected uncertainty of her voice was what made me listen and though I wasn't calm, I was done shouting.
“Sorry,” I said. I didn't mean it.
“I'm not an alcoholic either.” Erin held her breath, her cheeks blushing red. “It's okay, Rhys. Uh... Colin. I understand. Sometimes... you just feel so lonely and it's so easy-” I threw my arms up with a loud groan. I couldn't stand to be in their company any longer.
“Look. Colin Everwood, officer of the law!” I pulled my badge out of my pocket and shook it in front of her glasses. I thought that would stun them into silence and it worked for a moment but even as I turned my back on their amazed expressions, Dawn and Violet started off again. I slammed the door hard.
The first time his number appeared on my screen I ignored it but when my phone started ringing again an hour later I picked up.
“What do you want?” I sounded more sulky than harsh.
“Is this... Rhee?” The voice was female and unfamiliar but had that professional tone that sets the heart to pounding.
“No it's not, well... yes it is but- is Tony okay?”
“Your friend has been involved in an accident. He's at the hospital with me now.” And didn't I feel bad. When I got there, it was to discover that accident was the diplomatic term for stepping in front of a moving bus. My superior was there, looking into the case and of course he'd recognised the patient immediately. But that wasn't why I'd been called. Tony didn't have any I.D on him, not a scrap but in his phone Rhee was listed as the sole contact. They let me sit by his bed. My superior came and stood behind me. He said he wanted a word with me. I threw my badge at him and watched Parish slip away. I waited for him to wake up one last time, had all the words planned out. I'd open by saying what a sight he looked and he'd laugh and insult me back and I'd tell him how sorry I was. Tony died.
It takes a great man to let someone else have the last word. I wish it could have been goodbye.
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I'd really like to lengthen this, fill the gaps in so to speak as it's a little rushed and I was limited to 3300 words at the time. But before I do that, I was wondering if I could have some general feedback? Hardcore reviews are certainly welcome as well, but even just a paragraph about your thoughts on the characters, plot, ending would be great. Thanks xx
"I really do wish you would all kindly read the rules most carefully." How can they read the rules if they weren't handed a rule book/sheet? That's what I meant.
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