Chapter Five

      I missed the smell of smoke in pubs. The comforting mix of stale smoke mixed with stale alcohol was a signal to the senses that they were about to be soothed. Now I had to buy my drink and stand outside, hopping from foot to foot, cradling my drink to me in a bid to keep warm while I sucked on my cigarette.

      Vodka was the drink of the day. I hadn’t had it in a while – but desperate times called for desperate measures. Lots of 35ml measures of impending oblivion.

      Jim, the barman, had looked at me oddly when I walked in from the bright winter sunshine to the cosy gloominess of Jack’s Bar, just a short walk from my flat on Northland Road.

      ‘Early doors today?’ he asked as I took a seat at the bar.

      I looked at him quizzically.

      ‘Is it not early to be knocking off work? Time off for good behaviour, eh? Teacher’s pet?’

      I couldn’t help but snort at the irony of the words. ‘Yes, something like that,’ I said. ‘Double vodka and a Diet Coke.’ He raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak, just lifted a glass and carried it to the optic where I stared as the numbing clear liquid poured out.

      ‘The hard stuff, eh?’ he asked, as he added ice and popped open a small bottle of Diet Coke. He didn’t pour it. I imagined he knew as well as I did that the soft drink was really only for show. I would add a splash; enough to colour the vodka but not enough to dilute its potency.

      ‘Hard to beat,’ I said, raising my glass before tipping it back, allowing the sharp taste of the alcohol to warm my throat and sink to my stomach where it would settle the growing sense of unease.

      ‘I thought you were going off the booze for a bit?’ Jim asked, as I pushed the glass, now empty, towards him and gestured for a refill.

      ‘I did,’ I said. ‘It’s been a few weeks.’ I knew as well as he did that it had been just over a week, but he didn’t correct me.

      ‘Are you sure you want another? It’s still early and last time you were in you told me—’

      ‘Never mind what I told you,’ I said, making a conscious effort to keep my tone light when all I really wanted was for him to pour me another drink. ‘Look, Jim. You can pour me another drink – and maybe even another after that – or I can take my business elsewhere. But if I’m honest, I like it here. It’s quiet and most of the time you’re not a pain in the ass.’

      Jim shrugged and poured my drink. To try and make him feel a little better I added more than just a splash of my Diet Coke to the glass and nodded towards the beer garden, where I headed with my drink and my smokes to imbibe nicotine along with the alcohol.

      I knew I shouldn’t be drinking. Of course I did. Not least because of the double dose of anti-anxiety meds dissolved in my system. Ones that came with a big ‘Do Not Consume Alcohol’ warning on the front. But the alternative was not appealing. Go home to my flat in the half-light of the afternoon, work out just how many weeks’ rent I could afford to pay before I was officially broke. Broke and homeless. With a mild drink problem, an addiction to prescription medication, in hiding from a man who wanted to cause me actual physical harm and nursing a very heavy dose of guilt about the death of Rose Grahame.

      Standing shivering in the beer garden beside a plant pot festooned with cigarette butts and some fairy lights that no longer twinkled, I felt the first wave of negative feelings towards Rose and her perfect life. Had she not the sense she was born with? The sense to look both ways before crossing the road? She was pushing her baby in a pram for the love of God. If she had just looked up I wouldn’t be tormented by the abnormal angle of her neck and her left leg when she fell. I would be able to escape that glassy-eyed stare. I wouldn’t have felt compelled to go to the funeral and I wouldn’t have had to lie to Andrew and I wouldn’t now be unemployed and feeling slightly fuzzy headed as the last dregs of my vodka and Diet Coke slid down my throat.

      I’d have one more – and then go home. I stubbed out my cigarette, left it teetering on the pile of butts on the plant pot – all playing a dystopian version of Buckaroo, and walked back into the bar. I pushed my glass in Jim’s direction and he shook his head but poured another double measure anyway. ‘I’ll get you a toastie made. Some soakage,’ he said, but I shook my head.

      ‘I’ve dinner plans,’ I lied. ‘I’ll be good,’ I lied again.

      He walked away, knew he was beat. I poured the remainder of my Diet Coke into my vodka glass and took out my phone, clicking back into Facebook. I stared at the dialogue box asking me ‘What’s on your mind?’ – it had been just over five years since I had shared what was on my mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to delete my account. I hadn’t always been so reticent to share what I was thinking, of course. I used to share everything. My life on view for whoever wanted to see it and even a few people who didn’t. When things were better, of course. Or at least when I thought they were better. The fool that I was.

      *

      My keys clattered onto the floor as I kicked the pile of letters away from the door and stumbled into my flat, wondering who had moved the light switch a few inches to the left. I had been true to my word. I had left after my third drink (that it was a double wasn’t important). Now though, stumbling towards the moving light switch and feeling my stomach – empty but for the alcohol – churn, I decided I’d had a little too much. I needed to sit down and try to stop the room from spinning. My head had started to hurt. I knew I needed a glass of water and a few painkillers, so I made my way to the kitchen and pulled out a packet of pills, taking two small yellow and green Tramadol capsules out and throwing them back with water from the tap. I didn’t need painkillers this strong any more; they were given to me for backache a few months ago. I probably should have returned the remainder to the chemist, but I liked how they made me feel. Not only would they sort out my headache, they would knock me into the oblivion I desired – the kind of oblivion where, if I was lucky, I would dream of happy endings and nice things. An escape from my reality and of the face of Ben Cullen that haunted my notifications. Perhaps dreams of a sexy, stubbly husband called Cian, and a chubby cheeked baby called Jack and a life where I felt I had something to contribute to Facebook after all. A life worth mourning. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the sofa, pulling a blue chenille throw over me and drifting off into a hazy sleep.

      I was woken with a start at 2.37am, my blurred eyes trying to focus on the shadows drifting across the room, cast by a car driving by. In my half asleep, slightly drunk, Tramadol-induced state, I was sure I saw her, standing, head still twisted at an unnatural angle, eyes glazed, blood dripping from her hands. But smiling – because life was perfect. Because even dead, it was still better than mine. My heart froze, I pulled the blanket