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forward to seeing her. And this . . .’ I indicated the glass, poured the whiskey slowly on the floor, letting each drop lash his heart, ‘This you can shove up yer arse.’

 
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19

Retribution
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    I came to – or rather, was kicked to – by the side of the canal. I opened my eyes to see three teenagers in hoods standing over me, one going, ‘Get up, yah old wino.’
    Jesus, I was sick. If they ever have an Olympic event for hangovers, I’m gold. This was a beauty.
    The second hoodie was lighting matches, flicking them at me. I touched my ear – the hearing aid was gone, but I could hear this little bastard. The third leant over, said, ‘Fucker smells like piss.’
    They were having a high old time. When they decided to throw me in the water, it would have been a relief. But I reached out, grabbed one of them by his foot, got up on one knee, and in puresickness and rage, lifted him up and threw him in the canal.
    The other two stared in stunned silence.
    I croaked, ‘Who’s next?’
    Before they could take off, I grabbed the second, spasms of nausea doubling me, and managed to shake the bollocks. Out of his pockets fell my wallet, keys and hearing aid.
    The other one was pleading, ‘We was only messing, mister.’
    The one in the water was clinging on to a piece of driftwood. I kicked the remaining kid in the balls, went through his pockets, had to stop mid search, vomited all over him, got his wallet and finally straightened up. My body was in total agony but the rush of violence had energized me. I leaned over the first one and growled, ‘Where’s my watch?
    On his wrist.
    I broke two of his fingers out of pure vindictiveness.
    My limp was acting up, and as I began to hobble away, I saw an old-age pensioner leaning against a wall, smoking a pipe, the picture of contentment. He said, ‘I’ve waited a long time to see something as mighty as that.’
    I looked back. The one in the water was struggling now and I asked the old guy, ‘You think he’s drowning?’
    He took a long pleasurable pull at the pipe and said, ‘Please God.’
    I made my shaky way along the end of the canal and turned on to what passes in that area for the main street. I stopped at an off-licence, ignored the guy holding his nose and got a half pint of Jay. I said, ‘Looks like rain, you think?’
    He didn’t think anything, least not with me.
    I had to stop halfway up the street as another spasm gripped my stomach. I gritted my teeth and got home. Once inside, I collapsed, sweat coursing down me and the smell of my own body turning my stomach even more. Lying doubled up on the floor, I managed to pry the top off the bottle and gulp some whiskey down.
    I waited for it to kick in and when it did, was able to open my eyes. There on the table was my mobile phone. I could see the message light blinking even though the battery had worn down. I did a hasty check: nineteen messages.
    I crawled to the shower, tore off my reeking clothes and scalded myself for ten minutes, then took another belt of the Jay. Needed to before I checked the mirror.
    Christ, it was bad: a shaggy beard, cuts and bruises all down my cheeks, a black eye that had turned yellowish blue.
    I put the clothes in the bin, went to my underweardrawer and, God be praised, found three sleeping pills. I took them all with one more gulp of the whiskey and climbed, shivering, into bed. With any luck, I’d never wake up.
    This hangover I was going to sleep through, come hell or high water or both. This hangover was going to be biblical.
    It lasted ten days, but who’s counting?
    Days of nightmare, sweats and horror. I’d not so much wake as come to, drenched in perspiration, seeing rats gnawing at my feet, screaming, ‘They’re not there.’ Didn’t stop me from trying to beat them off with the handle of a brush, all the while whimpering and crying