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Still a Few Drops Left
Chapter One
Hostility
I had always hated the smell of alcohol. Well, not so much the alcohol itself, as when it was on the breaths of the usual, nightly drunks. Stale, sour stenches that wafted to my nostrils with every word slurred from slack, numb lips. It disgusted me. But, lately, I had developed a deep-seeded hatred for all manners of drink. More-over, I was beginning to feel resentment toward those who part-took in drowning their sorrows.
One drunkard-friend of mine came to mind.
London was full of bars, spots where said friend and I both knew that he could get his fix. Whenever I looked around the house, only to discover the lack of his person, there was no second-guessing just where David was. A cold, dank little hole-in-the-wall, where the beer was on-tap and the blonde man’s tab kept growing. And, growing… And, growing…
It was a Tuesday night when I had finally had enough, and stepped into a grubby little place called Galleon Green. No sooner was I through the door, than was my sense of smell assaulted by cigar smoke. I had to cover my mouth, and let out a few coughs.
Disgusting, I thought, taking in the immediate atmosphere. Absolutely fucking disgusting. The smoke was thick, hanging above my head in a most ominous fashion. Apparently, none of the bar-goers had heeded its warning; almost every patron had some form of smoke pouring from his mouth, opposite of what various drinks were up to, swallowed down without a blink. Most of the men were slouched over the bar, or near it, talking, drinking, and - judging from the raucous laughter - telling jokes. A much smaller group of men stood at the middle of the floor, a noisy game of pool occupying their passing moments. Elsewhere, there were at least five different men draped over different small, circular tables. Common sense said that either they had wallowed themselves into unconsciousness, or they had wallowed themselves to tears, wishing that they were no longer amongst the world of the living.
Wishes were always nice things to have.
Making my way across the floor, a portion of my jacket covering my face, I approached the bar. As I moved forward, I took the time to scan the gathered men. They ranged in size and appearance, some appearing to be businessmen, others, laborers. Different hair colors, different pitches of voice. Hell, some were even different nationalities. That was probably why no one batted an eyelash when I got to the counter, waiting until the bartender was free to call her over. The woman was easily in her thirties, late-thirties, if the gray in her otherwise brown hair was to be of any indication. Of course, working in a place like that must have been quite a trial for her. She barely spared me a glance, before shaking her head.
“Get outta’ here, kid. Ye’re too young t’be drinkin’,” she assumed to inform me, in a tired voice. She raised her hand to her face, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose between her right thumb, and middle finger.
I nearly sighed; I knew that I was too young for a bar. It was not as if I would be caught, dead, with any form of alcohol in my hand, anyway. “Actually,” I began, before the woman could walk away, “I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s probably been here a while. Blonde hair, needs a shave? Probably came in here smelling like single-malt Scotch?”
The look on her face was absolutely priceless. It told me everything that I needed to know about David’s visit to this particular place, and then some. Needless to say, I was even less pleased than when I began. “Upstairs,” she replied, gesturing toward the ceiling. “He passed out a while ago. Didn’t have nowhere t’put ‘im, and, he wouldn’t wake up. We jus’ stuck him in an arm chair.” She paused, briefly, before finishing, “Good luck, kid.” And, with that, she turned back to her paying customers.
I took a quick look around, easily spotting the stairs that lead to the next floor. My ascent was a hasty one, as I wanted nothing more than to get that sorry son-of-a-bitch, and get back to Gray’s. Once there… In my mind, I envisioned a heated fight, which ended with my fist knocking David back into oblivion. Hey, there. I had something to look forward to, since the kids were already in bed.
David was difficult to miss. He was slouched down in an armchair, just as the lady bartender had said. His clothes, which consisted of his usual white dress shirt, black slacks, shoes and socks, were horribly rumpled, as if he had simply pulled them on when they were fresh from the dryer. Honestly, that, too, was quite an achievement; Monique hung everyone’s clothes on the line, outside.
Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, and scream into the blonde’s ear, I leaned over him a little ways. Placing my hands on either of his shoulders, I proceeded to shake him, carefully. “Hey, David. C’mon, man. Wake up.” The only responses that I received involved a pathetic groan, and the swatting away of my hands, at the wrists. The latter caused me to narrow my eyes. Damn idiot was pissing me off. “Wake up, jackass. I’m not haulin’ your ass outta’ here.” More shaking, more groaning, more swatting – neigh, slapping. He was pushing the wrong button. “David, don’t make me backhand you.” In retrospect, I knew that such a threat was pretty-well pointless. The man was already in Lala Land, and it was not as if he could hear me, anyway.
A few more shakes, and a cuff to the back of the head later, and watery blue eyes were finally beginning to open. I sighed, relieved and exhausted. I had been at it for at least ten minutes. Bastard was a hard wake.
“Come on. Get up.” My tone was pretty gruff, as I was well-passed the road of patience, took a left turn, never to be seen, again. “It’s late, I’m tired, and you need to get home.”
David only blinked at me, once. Twice. This went on for at least a full thirty seconds, before I had finally had enough. Grabbing the blonde, roughly, by the arm, I proceeded to physically pull him from the chair. My grunt at feeling his weight drowned out whatever he tried to mumble to me, as I hoisted his right arm over my shoulders, my own left arm going around his waist in order to steady him. Without waiting for the complaints that I knew were on their way, I started toward the stairs. Of course, we ended up having a problem; David was as good as useless in the walking department. Naturally, this made me all the angrier, and equally as frustrated.
“Come on, David, it’s not that hard. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Didn’t your mother teach you how to walk?” When the man failed to move, I nearly growled, pressing my left knee against the back of his right, and pushing, trying to get him to take a step. It took a few tries, but David finally moved his leg out, getting us no more than a foot closer to the stairs. Well, it was a start. “All right, now, left. Come on. Let’s go.” Another moment passed, before the drunkard’s left foot planted itself slightly ahead of us. We kept up this pattern, until we were finally down the stairs, and out the front door of the bar. No one said a word, and I was glad. An off-kilter comment would have sent me through the roof.
The second that I was finally exposed to the fresh night air, I took in the deepest breath that I could ever have remembered. It was wonderful to fill my lungs with purity, unlike in that death trap. If one cigarette takes seven minutes from your life, I shuddered to think how much time I had lost from the second-hand smoke that I had just taken in.
The two of us – or, I should say I made it to the main road, acting as David’s crutch, more like his lifeline. He kept mumbling, whether to himself or to me I did not know, nor did I really care. The man barely spoke to anyone anymore, even in the rare moments when he was sober. I was in no mood to start listening to the soused man’s incoherent idiocy.
A lamp post became my saving grace, as I used it to lean up against, myself, still trying to support the stumbling, mumbling man at my side. I am certain that I was quite a sight, nearly hitting the sidewalk, attempting to balance a taller, heavier man with one arm, the other waving around as I tried to hail a taxi. When that did not work, I dug David’s phone from his pocket – surprised that he even had the thing, but hardly surprised to find it turned off – and dialed through a call to Lewis. I knew that I was soon to have a house full of angry individuals on my hands, but what else could I do?
Just as I had figured, a testy-sounding Lewis answered his phone. “Who d’hell is ‘is, an’, waddaya’ wan’?” were the words that were all but literally growled into my ear.
“Lewis, it’s me. Kai. I’m sorry to call you, but-“
“Yea’, yea’,” my friend interrupted me, before I heard him yawn. “Lemme’ guess. Y’got David, ‘e’s drunk off ‘is ass, an’ ye’re stuck outside a’ some dump. M’ah’ right?”
I sighed, silently, but still deeply. The man was good. “Yeah… We’re outside the Green Galleon. It’s on-“
“Ah’ know where it is, Kai. M’comin’.” Damn, it would have been nice to finish a sentence. “Stay d’ere.”
“Got it,” I replied. “See ya’.” Hanging up the phone, I crammed it back into David’s pocket. One look at the man’s face told me that he had drifted back to sleep, his forehead rested against the junction of my neck and left shoulder. “You’d better not drool on my jacket,” I warned him, uselessly. With another, more audible sigh, I lightly thunked my head against that lamp post, praying that Lewis would get to us, soon.