"Tough night?" he says.
It feels like I have nails in my throat. The voice that speaks does not belong to me. "You could say that," I say, returning his smile. I dab at my tee-shirt with my hands. "I know I've already had enough to drink, but there is no need to throw it away now, is there?"
He shakes his head and laughs. I feel genuinely funny.
"Where have your mates gone?" he asks, looking around at the empty space surrounding me.
I'm aware I must look sheepish. "Think I'm last man standing,” I say. “They're probably tucked up in bed now."
He holds up a triumphant hand and I slap it. "Nice one," he says. He takes a quick glance around. "Listen, I'm in pretty much the same boat as you. If you fancy keeping the party going then I'm meeting my housemates back at ours for a few more drinks. Hopefully they'll have got a few girls interested, but who knows? I could call it a party, but that would be stretching the truth somewhat. We'll just be hanging out really, see what happens..."
We both know that he doesn't have to sell it too much; I am unlikely to have many - or any - better offers. I know he has used the possibility of girls being there as a lure. Clearly I look like an adolescent at risk of incurring a repetitive strain injury on my wrist.
I decide to play it cool. "I'm just heading for a piss. Who knows, depending how I feel when I'm in there then I might make it a crap. I'll meet you outside in five minutes. If you're not there then I know you've gone on without me. No great shakes, yeah?"
He shakes my hand and indicates that he likes my style. I watch the back of his head as he walks away.
I squeeze my eyes tight and I'm brought back to the present. I push my hand against the greasy wall to stop the room spinning. The moment has gone. I turn around and leave the building through the dark, grim back door that I came through.
I can't face going through the front door and retracing the steps that unfolded that night.
I leave the same way I came in.
DAY EIGHTEEN 18TH JUNE 2018
My father said that I looked smart that day, said that he was proud of me. He wasn't just being kind, either; he wasn't just being fatherly. He meant it. But then, my dad was just naturally kind.
I wanted to laugh at the words. I wanted to scorn them. How wrong could he be?
I look over at the wall I hid behind. The beautiful, tall green trees left a permanent shadow on the wall; it was always in the shade. On this side, the wall only came to about waist level, but on the other side it reached the chest, just right to look over without being seen. There was the occasional passing car or pedestrian to worry about, but not many, for anybody who was anybody in the village was on the other side of the wall, heads bowed, hands clasped behind their backs, paying respects to the wonderful woman as her coffin was lowered into the ground. They stood tall and proud and wanted to be seen to be there. I was a cowering, squinting nobody, looking in from the outside; I was worse than a peeping Tom.
How on earth could I have looked smart? More to the point, how the fuck could my dad have been proud?
I only realised just how much she meant to me when I moved away, when I left her. The first few months in London were the hardest. Summer had turned to autumn and then the crisp leaves coating the pavements turned to mush. I shared a house with housemates that were neither mates nor in the house very often, and I spent most evenings lying on my single bed in a tiny darkened box room, TV silently flashing in the background, opened cans of lager on my dressing table. Always, the first person I thought of speaking to was my mum.
One night I left my room with pound coins jingling in my joggers. It was a dry night, but steam blew from my mouth. Huddled inside the red phone box, my mum picked up the phone after a single ring.
"Mum," I said, "I haven't spoken to anybody for two whole days..."
She soothed me as I broke down in tears, told me that everything was okay, that she was always there with me. Instantly I felt stronger. I told her about my days, reassured her that I was determined to get a job, that everything would fit into place once I got some work. My mum told me that I was the bravest person she knew, to do what I'd done, that she was so proud of me.
Somebody banged on the window of the phone box, told me to hurry up. They bounced up and down on the spot in the cold, face hidden in a cloud of steam. I didn't care. I was speaking to my mum.
I ended the call and promised I'd call again the next day. My mum told me she loved me. I held the door open for the guy that had been knocking on the window, but he just gave me a look. It was the look that did it for me. I went to pass him the phone
