Suicide Kid

‘Do you know what happened?’
‘No,’ Artie replied to the stranger, ‘probably a car crash.’
They both stood on the pavement amongst the other gawping gatherers. There was an underpass at the other side of the road, a blue ford’s drivers door was open. Yellow police tape cordoning off the pedestrian sidewalk. Police officers were looking down at the underpass. Artie wanted to see what it was that the police officers were seeing.
He overheard two spectators talking. They sounded like two elderly women. One of them had said that someone had jumped. They other replied sympathetically with an, ‘oh dear, how awful.’
The stranger who was standing next to Artie, and who was also listening to the two elderly women, spoke to Artie again. ‘Suicide,’ said the stranger as though he had solved a difficult puzzle that had been taxing his brain matter for months.
‘What would make a person do such a tragic thing,’ said Artie.
The stranger simply replied. ‘Life.’

The suicide was all over the local news that day.
Artie sat in front of the television eating beans on toast again; his knees taking up table duties. Different brand of bake beans this time, but a brand he won’t be buying again.
He went round to the local pub. Everyone was gabbling on about what had happened at the bridge earlier in the day. They were referring to the twenty-two year old boy who committed suicide as, The Jumper. His name was on the news but I guessed they were emotionally detaching themselves from the tragedy.
Artie was pretty much bladdered by the time he left the bar. He avoided all talk about, The Jumper, as best he could. He said his cheerio’s to the regulars as he left the bar early, so he wouldn’t miss the late bus. He was catching the bus to go over to his mam’s house. He wasn’t going over for any particular reason, other than the fact that he hadn’t seen his mam in a while. He usually went every week, but he had been so tired from work that he hadn’t felt up to the small 20 minute walk to her home.
He felt sorry for his mam because she was often lonely at this time of year. She didn’t leave the house much, because it was too cold. Not that she needed to mind, with those meals on wheels folks who came round every day. Artie wished that he could get service like that. A decent meal for a change.
He knocked on her door, giving her a minute to answer. His bladder was about to burst, so he had no choice but to shout his mother’s name through the letter box. His mother hated when he shouted through the letter box, saying that the neighbours complained. But it was an emergency. She opened up the door and he went straight for the toilet.
When Artie had finished relieving himself, he went into the living room and sat down on the unoccupied sofa. His mother was watching some late night show that he thought was surely too cutting edge for his mam’s tastes - swearing, sex and songs with coarse lyrics - not for Artie of course, he’d be watching it at home with his pant’s around his ankles.
He was embarrassed watching this type of show with his mother. And if she didn’t change the channel soon he was sure to make it a short visit.
The first and last thing his mother said to him that night was, ‘did you hear about that poor boy, jumped off the bridge in town.’ The next part she added, ‘the suicide,’ as though we were surrounded by the jumper’s grieving family. He didn’t want to have a conversation with his mother about the suicide kid, so he kept his mouth shut.
Artie sat there and watched as his mother took a tissue from inside the cuff of her cardigan, blowing her nose on the tissue, and putting it back under the same cuff.
He looked at his aged mother, who had to be in her late seventies, but couldn’t be sure. She was old that was all that mattered. Closer to death than anyone who was close to him. And he was saddened by that morbid fact: That she was going to go soon, a lot sooner than he. And he would be alone, an only child with no living parents.
She was beginning to fall asleep, her eyes slowing shutting, then she suddenly laughed out loudly at a scabrous joke from the TV. Artie started to leave, watching as her eyes completely shut and she began to snore.
He got up and left without saying goodbye.

Artie woke up the next day, there was no light coming through the gaps in between where the blinds did not meet. It was still night, he thought to himself as he looked at the darkness beyond the window.
The taste in his mouth and the pounding of his head reminded him of last nights drinking. He lit a cig, and felt sick on the back of his throat as he coughed.
The day was too young and he was too old to be entering it at this hour. He finished his cigarette, putting it out in the makeshift ashtray on the floor at the side of the bed, then shut his eyes to sleep.

Thursday, and quite aptly the free Thursday paper came. He was awoken by the slap from the local newspaper hitting the carpet-less floor. He retrieved the paper and went back to the bedroom to read it under the warmth of the covers, settling into a comfortable position to read it. He unfolded the paper, revealing the front page news story: Man 22, jumps off city bridge committing suicide. Under the headline there was a picture of the blue ford car with the drivers door open, police officers behind the cordoned off yellow tape, who were looking down at the road that went under the bridge they were standing on.It was exactly the same picture he had seen that day, he thought to himself; the picture could have been taken from his own mind.
The full details of the event were there to start his day off badly.

After he had read the article in the free local paper, Artie went to get myself cleaned-up and as ready for the day as he possibly could.
Lying in the warm dirty water of the bath longer than he thought he should have. He began to think: How sad it was that he had nowhere to go.
It was his day off from work.
Time has never really been a factor in his life, although to contradict that, filling it has been. That’s why he must take so long to do the most menial of tasks. It fills the time, pads it out a bit.
Sadness is a factor in his life though. It hangs over him like a car suspended in the air by a crane. And that’s why he has been in this bathtub for another wasteful hour of his life.
Artie unplugged the bath, wrapped a towel around himself, and looked in the mirror at his worn middle aged face.
Looking at his reflection Artie began to think how futile life was. And if the boy who committed suicide had felt the same as he did - he must have. Artie was excruciatingly frustrated because he would never know why the boy had killed himself: Why would a person commit suicide at the tender age of twenty-two?
Was he lonely; another person who had no one to turn to for help. But I supposed we’re all alone.
When we close our eyes.
When we dream.
When we die.

He went to work keeping his head down, and thoughts of the suicide kid out of his mind as best he could, considering he had nothing else in his life to think about - nothing of any importance anyhow.
Artie managed to keep his mind occupied by concentrating on the work the he was paid to do. Usually the work was tedious, which tended to make it hard for Artie to concentrate on what he was doing, but today was somehow different. It was different because Artie had something that he didn’t want to think about, something that kept his attention away from a wandering mind. It reminded him of what the nuns used to say at the school he attended: Remember God is everywhere. He can see you even though you can’t see him. He can hear your thoughts, your feelings, even though you can’t hear what God is thinking or feeling. But you can feel the love that he has for you because you are one of his children - because we are all children of God. So remember that if you are thinking evil thoughts or doing evil things, that God knows - He knows because he is everywhere.
It scared the shit out of him. God knew everything, even when Artie was, (well you know). Artie didn’t believe in God anymore, and not because he loved doing that thing too much. No that wasn’t it. He stopped believing in God after his Father died.
Artie’s father worked in the same paper mill factory as he does now. He did the same job that his father did: Lifting heavy piles of paper and piling them on other piles of paper until the trolley was filled to an acceptable level of paper and weight so it would still be possible to manoeuvre said trolley. It was a depressingly monotonous job.
Artie was a child when it all happened; his fathers death. He was happily playing - as he always was - on the floor in the living room with a wooden train toy, the television was on, but he wasn’t watching it. His mother told Artie that she was going to switch it off, saying that it was making a right bloody racket and that she couldn’t think straight. But she was always saying that. Artie remembered when he sneezed five times in a row once and she said, ‘will you keep the noise down Artie, I’m trying to think.’ Artie's mother surely did have an intolerant nature toward sound.
So there little Artie was, playing in the living room floor with his toy train; which he named Thomas, even though it wasn’t actually a Thomas the tank engine train. But because the train looked like a Thomas. Because like any child, he was definitely a fan of anthropomorphism; giving human characteristics to things that were not human.
Artie was playing with Thomas - which incidentally had no track to journey on - not watching the television that was blaring it’s noise, when his mother came through with a look on her face that he had never seen her adopt before, telling him through tears that daddy was dead. Artie didn’t understand what his mother was saying; you must think him stupid but he thought his mother was playing a grown-up game, a sophisticated game that he didn't understand because he was just a kid.
Artie didn’t feel anything when he realised what his mother was saying, wasn’t a game but an unfair truth. He supposed, he was in a kind of shock.
He even remembered his mother going into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, screaming and hitting the walls, and Artie continued to play with Thomas on the floor making Chug-Chug noises from his mouth.
He remembers that memory more than any other memory in his life.
He never forgot what it was like with his father. They’re relationship was close, closer that the one that he had with his mother. And when his father died, it did nothing to bring his mother and him any closer. He was bitter for many years after he fully realised he would never see his father again, because everything was good in they’re lives. It really was. They weren’t a perfect family, but they were a happy family, a loving family. But that had changed forever when his mother told him daddy was dead.

It was Artie’s dinner break and he was in the factory canteen eating a tuna and sweet corn sandwich, with a black coffee. It was the first time he had eaten tuna and sweet corn since his childhood; it was his fathers favourite. Artie always used to try and take a bite from his dad’s sandwich. His father would always tell him that he couldn’t have any of it, and besides he’d say, you’ve got your own food. But Artie would pester and pester him until his father finally relented, which he always did.
After Artie had finished his lunch he sat melancholically across from two fellow workers who were both reading a red-top newspapers. He usually wasn’t one for conversation unless he had a pint in him but he needed to talk to someone. So he began a conversation with the two men.
‘Hear about the suicide in town?’ He didn’t know why he came straight out and asked them that, but he guessed he hadn’t anything else to say.
The two men both looked over the tops of their papers at him.
‘Yeah I ‘erd.’
‘Me too, poor sod,’ said the second man.
‘It were in the papers yesterday,’ said the first man.
‘I read it, but it didn’t say why he did it,’ said Artie.
‘I’m glad.’ Said the first man, obviously the more talkative of the two. ’How depressing would it be if he was in a similar place in ‘is life to us.’
‘Yeah I suppose,’ Artie agreed. ‘He was only twenty-two though, we’re all twice that.’
‘Speak for yourself mate.’ The second man chirped.
‘You know what I’m saying,’ replied Artie.
‘Yeah we ‘ear what you’re saying. But what can you do.’
‘What’s done is done.’ Philosophised the second man.
Brrree-OH... Brrree-OH... Sounded the alarm of doom. The two men got up off their seats and made their way back to their work stations.
Artie too made his way back to work. He was thinking about what the second man had said: What’s done is done. He was disturbed by what he had said. And it wasn’t because he didn’t agree with what the man had said, because he did agree. He knew like all who think do, that you cannot change what has been. He wasn’t adverse to this type of thinking; he had made mistakes in his life, he is human after all.
It was how simplistic it all seemed to be: What’s done is done. A man had taken his own life, and it didn’t sit well with Artie. No it didn’t sit well one bit. One doesn’t just kill oneself for no reason do they? And at twenty-two. It make’s no sense. If he could find out why, although he could never understand why someone would killed themselves. Life is too important and too short. So why end it? Artie thought.

Artie finished work at 1700 hours. He clocked out, catching the bus at ten past five. He was home at 1735 hours.
The first thing he did was check the free Thursday newspaper again. He was reading the story about the suicide kid for what must be the 10th time. Each time troubling him more than the last. He was becoming somewhat obsessed. He wanted to do something but wasn’t it already too late for that.
Artie went over to the table beneath the double windowpane - which frankly needed a good clean - and opened up a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels. He was a millisecond away from pouring the JD into a whisky glass, then decided against it. Deciding instead to take the bottle with him back to his seat.
He swigged half the contents of the bottle whilst reading over the Suicide kid’s story again and again. It became near impossible for him to read the print anymore, so he sat glassy-eyed at the T.V until he fell into a drunken slumber.

Artie went to work to a hell of a disturbance: A circle of men in factory uniform - boiler suits and steel capped shoes - were surrounding two men who must have been fighting with one another. They men were shouting ‘punch his face in Marty; Yeah- smash ’em up good.’ One of them said in a Scottish accent; Gee ‘im a Glaysga’ kiss. Some laughed at this.
Artie drew nearer to the rabid crowd who wanted blood so bad they could taste it. He wasn’t going to interfere - he didn’t like confrontation - but he was curious to see what the men were frothing at the mouth over.
Artie stood on his tiptoes behind two taller men, looking between their red angry heads; they’re was a large man who Artie had seen around the factory on a few occasions, but had never spoken to him. The large man was on top of a young man who Artie thought could be no more than nineteen years old.
Smack!
The young man was bleeding at the mouth from a vicious blow, that the larger man had just planted on the boy’s delicate face. The back of the boy’s head hit the stony gravel.
The sight of the boy's blood and the fleshy, bony sounds made Artie feel sick to this stomach - he never could abide violence.
‘That’s it,’ one of the men next to Artie shouted. ‘Same again Marty.’
The large man was now grunting as he had total control over the boy’s powerless body; saliva glistened on the large man’s lips relishing victory.
The large man had his left hand balled around the boy’s boiler suit below his chin, he lifting the boy’s upper torso and head off the gravely floor with relative ease. He lifted his right hand high up into the crisp air; his knuckles were white and were coming in quick for a red paint job. The large man’s fist of fury came in hard towards the boy’s dark skinned face. The boy who looked limp and powerless to do anything suddenly moved his shoulders and head as much to the his right as he possible could to avoid the punch, he managed to do so in spectacular fashion. The man’s fist hit hard and true into the gravel with a Crunch. The boy scampered across the floor, kicking his body from underneath the large man’s.
It was clear for all to see the colour draining from the large man’s grimacing face.
‘Black bastard.’ Shouted the large man as he with equal interest checked his swelling hand and the boy he had been pummelling.
Artie was glad it was over and that no more harm would come to the boy’s delicate features - well, at least for now.
The crowd dispersed, yet Artie stood firmly in his place staring at the dark skinned boy as he imagined a scientist who studies animal and human behaviour would. Because Artie thought: Are we not both animalistic and humanistic in are nature? Is there any difference to made, at all, between either?
The boy caught Artie staring, and he didn’t looked best pleased to be Artie’s focal point. The boy stared back at Artie whilst wiping the remains of the blood from his face onto the arm of his boiler suit. Artie averted his eyes after having one last look at the boy’s face, and he was almost certain that he’d never seen the boy before this very day.
Artie moved over towards where he usually waited before clocking in.
They’re was a small recess in the wall where Artie stood, away from his co-workers. He’d light up a cigarette, roll-up his left sleeve that covered an inexpensive watch, take a drag from his cigarette and watch the time. He usually got through three cigarettes back to back before having to clock in. Today he thought, he’d be lucky if he’d get through one.

The alarm sounded: It was lunch time again at the paper mill.
Artie, labouredly, piled paper onto a trolley. He was waiting for the other workers to get to the canteen before him, so that the dark skinned boy would already be in the canteen sitting down to eat by the time he got there.
The first person Artie spotted was the dark skinned boy. He was sitting alone at the far end of the canteen. Artie took a tray and slid it along the counter, placing a tuna and sweet corn sandwich, along with a black coffee onto his tray.
Artie looked around helplessly as though there where no spare seats - making sure to ignore the ones he could see - so that if the dark skinned boy was to look up he wouldn’t think Artie was picking a seat next to him for any other reason that they’re weren’t any seats of propitious bent left. He weaved his way past tree trunk legs that some of the careless workers had stretched out into the aisle. The dark skinned boy looked up at Artie as he took the seat opposite him.
‘Don’t have to sit here you know,’ said the boy.
‘Yeah I know.’ Artie placed his tray down onto the table.
The young man was eating macaroni and cheese and was looking at Artie suspiciously as he ate.
‘This your first day?’ said Artie as he released his tuna and sweet corn sandwich from its plastic prison.
‘Yeah.’ The boy appeared more interested in his lunch than he did Artie.
‘You done much factory work?’ asked Artie.
‘I used to work at the Stretman paper mill.’
‘Yeah I know it. How long you work there?’
‘A year.’
‘Why’d you leave?’
The boy looked up at Artie and replied: ‘Got laid-off, didn’t I, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Stretman and this mill were in competition with each other I’d be sitting at home picking my arse.’
Artie looked at the cut on the young man’s swollen lip as he ate his macaroni and cheese.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Artie. You?’
‘Herman.’ The boy scanned Artie's face. 'Call me Herm.'
Artie quickly chewed and swallowed the piece of sandwich in his mouth, followed by some of the black coffee before offering his hand to Herman's - which looked like it had been dragged through a mile of obviating gravel.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Artie as he shook hands with Herman.
‘Yeah, you’re alright,’ said Herman appraisingly.
If there was any pain in Herman's mitts he hid it well as they withdrew their respective hands to begin eating their lunch again.
Herman and Artie stayed put, while almost all the other workers went outside for a cigarette when the first of two alarms signalled the five minutes left for lunch.
‘Look at them,’ said Herman, ‘they’re nothing but conditioned lab rats.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Artie said honestly.
‘We’re still sitting here,’ Herman countered.
‘But as soon as the second alarm goes off, we’ll move in haste, won’t we.’
‘Yes, that maybe true, but… oh I don’t know.’ Herman finished exasperatedly.
‘You have to make the most of it. Like the smokers who try to fit in one last cigarette before their final shift of the day begins. Or the men who go back to work before the bell has sounded the end of another lunch break, so that they fill in the days work quota, and avoid over-time. Because no one wants to be here longer than they have to be.’
‘What about us then.’ Herman sounded irritated as he spoke. ‘Are we making, the best of it, by sitting here running down the clock.’
‘I don’t know. But I can tell you one thing. When we look back at our lives, it won’t be sitting here that we remember in fondness, it will be a remembrance of regret, of resentment.’
‘I’m hearing you loud and clear friend,’ said Herman, forlornly.
Artie wasn’t the only thing Herman was hearing loud and clear, because as soon as he had spoken his last word, the alarm of doom went off. It sounded louder, weighed heavier and felt more oppressive to Artie than he could ever remember it being in all his years working at the factory. How strange, he thought. How strange.
Artie and Herman looked at each other solemnly across the table.
They dutifully carried their trays to the kitchen counter-top where the other trays resided awaiting tomorrows deployment. They both emptied the days unwanted and finished lunch packaging into the bins, placing their trays on top of the already highly stacked pile of trays. They never spoke a word nor muttered a sound as they left the canteen, going back to work their last shift of the day.

The sky was pink; crows and pigeons were flying high around the church tower, two blocks from Artie's flat.
Artie had left his home that evening to go for a drink with a friend, whom he hadn’t seen much of lately. Artie’s friend Dean worked night-shift, had a loving wife, two kids and two cat’s, (because if one kid had a cat, the other had to have one too) - Those were the rules, and if you, the parent, wanted an easy life you’d stick by them.
Artie entered the bar, not his usual haunt, because it was more modern, more wearing of suits, and more bloody expensive. Dean waved from the bar. Artie was glad to see two pints of beer on the bar beside his friend. He walked over where Dean was standing. The first thing Artie did was say hello, then took a long drink from his golden, cloud-headed-pint.
‘Let’s grab a seat,’ said Dean picking up his pint and leading the way to the less busier section of the pub: The back. There were two rooms. The front room where Artie had entered into which looked like an ordinary bar-room, except the floors weren’t sticky, and the very distinguishable smell of stale ale and puke were missing - well, you can't have everything.
The backroom however was quaint, low lighted, had jazz playing, and included the permitting of smoking your lungs out.
There was a young couple kissing at a lamp lighted table in the corner of the room. Dean and Artie sat down across from each other at a circular table covered in a burgundy tablecloth.
They drank their pints and looked at one another.
Artie asked Dean if he would mind if he light up a cigarette. Dean shook his head indicating that he didn’t.
Artie loved to see an empty ashtray waiting to be filled in a bar or any place that served alcohol for that matter. He rarely smoked outside of work, usually only ever reaching for a cigarette when an excruciating boredom hit him. But if you gave him alcohol, especially his favourite tipple, (Jack Daniels straight - no ice) he’d smoke until the cows came home, or until he’d ran out of cigarettes and money, whatever came sooner.
Artie lit up, took a drag and felt what he always felt; relief.
‘So how’s the factory life treating you?’
‘More wasted breaths.’ Artie replied.
‘I’ve told you before that I could get you some work if you really wanted it.’
‘Thanks mate, but I’ll be the master of my own destiny if you don’t mind.’
Dean was smiling as he said, ‘still the same old Artie I see.’
‘What did you expect?’
‘How’ve you been any way old chum, it’s been a while?’
‘A while, I haven’t seen you since your son’s fifth birthday, and he’s sixteen now.’
‘Not quite Artie.’

When Artie and Dean had finished their last drink and subsequent time together. After their strained conversation and the invitation from Dean to attend the surprise birthday party he’s having for his wife Minnie. They went their separate ways.
Artie walked drunkenly around the city streets, knowing not where he walked or how he got to the inevitable destination he now found himself in alone, drunk and apprehensive even with the courage given by the beer. The streets were dark, too dark, cobbled and void of light and life. He walked up an alley to take a piss. Squeezed in behind a large trash container, then routinely unclasped his belt, pulled down his zipper, took out his unflattering penis, leant against the grimy wall - knowing not if he’d been the one holding it up or being held up by it - pointed his shooter toward the ground and he let out a sound of ecstasy as he marked his territory.
Floosh.
Light momentarily flashed, bouncing off a window that he didn't know was before him, the light caught his eyes and transfixed him like a deer caught in car headlights.
‘Who’s there?’ Artie said blindly.
‘Looking for business?’ A women’s voice came boldly from behind Artie’s back as the bright light disappeared when she shook the light matchstick out.
Artie drawled, ‘I’ve already got a job thanks.’ Artie new, he was a man of the world, we’ll he wasn’t much cultured, but he new she was a working girl.
‘I’m offering you a type of job alright, but one where you pay.’ She audibly took a drag of her cigarette - Artie now gagging for a cig between his dry cracked lips.
Artie surprised by her dry wit, especially in a place as hopeless as this, licked his lips saying what he’d not yet processed in thought, ‘How much?’ Artie shakes the end of his penis for good measure, then reversed the process of putting everything back in place. Artie turned around, and looked at the working girl’s face that was lit by the end of her cigarette: She had the bones of a prostitute; a heavy drug user, a girl who’d lived more lives in one body than was humanly possible. She was a women of 30 who looked like a badly aged women of 50.
She rung off a list of what she does and for how much. Artie replied sardonically, ‘You’ve done this before.’
She puffed on her cigarette, and blew smoke out from her nose like a bull ready to unleash hell on the matador.
‘Where’d you want to go?’ Artie asked.
‘How about right here, cowboy.’

Artie woke up in his bed, alone as usual; nothing new there. But he was somehow different; alone but not alone. He’d been sick during the night, he was sure of that because he could smell the putrid stench of puke close by, a stink that he’d not escape today no matter where he went in the earths grey land.
He had work at nine o’clock this morning but he was going to call in sick. He couldn’t bear the tedium of the paper factory today. His mind would be short of things to think about today, like it was most of the time in his waking day, but he knew it would be hopeless trying to process a single solitary thought that could take his mind of the sickly feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach; a mixture of self-loathing and the remnants of alcohol.
He called the factory manager, only after he couldn’t reach his supervisor. His manager was pissed at him but accepted his excuse for taking the time off work. ‘My mother’s ill, she needs me to look after her today.’ The factory manager had replied to Artie’s insincere line, with sincerity. ‘I hope she gets well soon,’ and signed off with a toneless ‘bye.’ Artie hung up the phone.
He was free to do whatever he wanted today as long as he kept himself indoors, or in a place where he knew his co-workers don’t frequent i.e. his local bar. But he wasn’t up for going there today… well, not yet anyway. He’d check to see what his unemployed next door neighbour was up to today. See if he’d like to join him later for a drink. He’d go crazy if he didn’t try and do something in his fake day of sickness. It felt good, refreshing, a break from the routine. He was so galvanised that he was going to clean his flat, maybe even move the furniture around, some of that feng shui. But then again, why waste time tidying when he could be doing something productive, like killing his liver a little more, and after hearing of it's regenerative properties some years ago he needed no more reason nor conviction that there was still hope in the world.
Artie was already in a better mood.

Artie opened the front door. ‘Hey man,’ said his neighbour Pug; a squashed nosed ex-club boxer who’d lost more fights than he’d won.
‘I was just about to call you, to see if you wanted to go for a drink later’ Artie replied.
‘No need to, here I am.’ Pug walked through to Artie's living room.
Artie looked down at his friends monochrome black and white cat Jasper. ‘Here Jasper.’ He bent down sticking out his hand is if to appeal to the cats curiosity. ‘Here Jasper. Jasper walked over to Artie's open hand and began to purr as he rubbed himself against Artie‘s dirty calloused hand. Artie smiled at the cats content face, ‘Whose a good boy.’ Artie went to pet Jasper again before joining his friend in the house, but as he did so the cat sharply bit down on Artie's index finger. ‘Ouch!’ Artie exclaimed. ‘God damn cat just bit me,’ he shouted through to Pug.
‘Oh yeah, shit, sorry dude. Forgot to tell you Jasper’s a little temperamental since I mistook him for the ashtray.’
Artie looked at the cats evil little face and petulantly told it to fuck off, then closed the door behind him as he went through to see Pug.
Pug had his feet on the table. ‘He do a job on you then,’ he said.
‘Its nothing, just surprised me that’s all. But I’ll tell you something if he did that to Ms. Whitmyer, she‘d send him flying out the landing window. Defenestration defence, no mistake.’
‘Jasper's a free spirit, if any harm comes to him it’ll be on his own head, I can’t be held responsible.’
‘What brings you round here at this ungodly hour anyway?’
‘Can’t an old friend come ‘round and see his pal without having a reason.’
‘Anybody else, yes. But you? No.’
‘Thanks a bunch.’
Artie locked eyes with Pug and they both stayed that way until Pug finally had the guts to say why he’d really dropped by.
‘Well the thing is you see.. is that.. Well..’
‘Spit it out, Pug,’ said Artie impatiently.
‘I-need-money,’ Pug said in a rush.
‘What for this time?’
‘A certainty at New Cross.’ He smiled an awkward, pitiable smile.
Artie walked into the lobby to retrieve his wallet from his hanging jacket. ‘How much?’ Artie shouted from the lobby.
’Fifty,’ Pug shakily shouted back. You could almost here the beads of sweat as they screeched down Pugs forehead.
Artie stupidly picked out two twenties and a ten from his wallet, as he did so he shouted, ‘Don’t you still owe me money from last time?’
The sweat was spilling into Pugs eyebrows. ‘No, no, I paid you back remember?’
Artie walked back into the living room where pug was now standing. ‘Vaguely,’ he said. Artie handed over the money to Pug.
‘You’re a life saver.’ Pug checked his watch, ‘Would you look at the time. I better be off.’ Pug made his way to the door, opened it and stepped out into the flats stairwell saying, ‘I’ll drop by for a dram next week, sometime.’
Artie listened to Pug saying something about a drink next week, but wasn’t really listening. He shut the door hearing Pugs clumping footfalls on the stairs, then went back to bed cursing himself for waking up feeling empty from last nights paid sex, and this mornings fifty pound wallet diet, so he went back to sleep not caring what time he woke up or if he ever did.

The sky was purple like an inaptly named black-eye.
Artie checked his pockets before he left his mini one bedroom mansion. They contained a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a wallet with twenty quid and a ribbed rubber-johnny. He was all set to go to the pub once again.
The usual crowd was in. Bobby, Alf and Martin who circled round the dart board watching Mitch play Errol. The three bingo junkies were in from what looked liked an unprofitable gambling outing; two fat ladies? No sir, three - and bingo wings aptly name for the The red eyed James sat at the bar shakily steering a Guinness down his yellowing gob.
Artie took a seat next to James.
‘How’s it going?’ said James. ‘Cigarette?’ James pulled open the fag packet's lid, revealing the cookie-cutter gang inside. Artie declined with thanks.
‘I’ve got my own thanks.’ Artie pulled his own fags from his inside jacket pocket, sticking one between his clammy lips, he lit it up, then sucked in its toxic goodness. Artie gestured toward the Guinness in his bar-fly friend's shaking grip, ‘Same again James?’
James tilted the top of a pessimistically half empty Guinness.
The head of Artie’s twenty pound note popped out from its trapping - Artie’s index and middle finger - as he tried to grab the bartenders attention.
The bartender came over took the order: Guinness, double Jack Daniels and lager.
Artie downed the double JD, waited for the dispensing of James’ drink and his lager. ‘It’s not really busy in here tonight?’ he said.
James hunched over his drink, moved his head to the left of himself and then the right, having a good look around the near empty pub and replied, ‘Hadn’t really noticed.’
The bartender taking the payment from Artie, went to the till, dug up his change, gave it to him, then went on to serve a solitary soul at the end of the bar.
‘How’s your mother keeping these days?’ James had always had a thing for Artie's mam.
‘She doing fine,’ Artie told him. ‘I’ll tell her you were asking for her.’
‘A fine woman your mam,’ he said. ‘A real good ’un.’
Artie lifts his JD up in response to his kind words.
James does the same, and smiles.

Artie left the bar - not because he chose to, but because he was no longer being served on account of his drunkenness. Artie now walked through the streets pissed.
He walked up to the bridge where the boy committed suicide. He, like that day of the boy’s own reckoning was standing on the other side of the street. There was no trace of the boy’s last moments on earth. There was nothing. The bridge still stood. But there was nothing. The cars still passed underneath the bridge. But there was nothing.
Artie slumped against a wall, looking at the bridge as he drank from a hip-flask full of his favourite tipple.
He must have dozed off because when he next looks beyond his bleary eyes, he sees that on the other side of the road that a man is standing on top of the concrete bridge. The man was standing with his arms outstretched like the Angel of the North; his hair and clothes were billowing in the wind.
Artie stumbled over to the side of the bridge stopping against the granite bridge wall. He looks up at the man from about ten feet away not knowing what to do next. Artie is frightened to approach the man who appears oblivious to his existence, knowing an utterance of any kind may send the man spiralling down to the quiet intersection below.
Artie decides to climb up onto the concrete wall. He struggles to get to his feet but when he does he first steadies himself, looks at the road bellow then looks at the man who has yet to acknowledge Artie’s presence. Artie tentatively moves toward the man stopping about three feet from the man’s outstretched arm, ‘Hey,’ Artie says, but the man doesn’t move. ‘Hey,’ he repeats but louder. Artie realises he has no option but to pull the man by the arm off the bridge. Artie cautiously draws his own arms out so the ends of his fingers are within an inch of the man’s forearm. Artie aggressively grabs the man’s forearm and pushes hard but finds nothing but air. Artie knocks himself off balance and unbalanced falls backwards down to the road below the same road the suicide kid hit and died on. And as he’s falling he is looking back at the bridge he was just stood upon, he sees that it is empty, then everything goes black.

There was a voice calling to Artie through the blackness. It hauntingly called to him:
Hey, Mister… Mister, you alright?
There was another voice. A woman’s voice:
Oh my god… oh Jesus… is he? … oh lord.
But Artie couldn’t see the faces of the intoning voices.
His cheek was rendered cold by what felt like a hand. Then the cold hand went to his neck.
The voice came again: We better get an ambulance.
The voice was ethereal.
The woman’s voice was wailing nonsensically.
Artie tried responding to the voices but he couldn’t speak. For all his want to assure the voices, he was unable to do so. To do anything. Artie no longer felt the cold hand on his neck. The last thing he heard from the voice in the dark was: I think he’s dead.