The Third Person

She threaded her way over to the right, where a tray with three glasses and a bottle of whisky was waiting, guarded by a young barman who nodded at Steph as she picked it up and bobbed away. I followed her to the far end, dodging the jagged silhouettes of slam-dancers, and we went round into what turned out to be a kind of snug, albeit a bare and badly furnished one. There were a few low, old tables (unmatching) and a scattering of weathered armchairs (also unmatching). There were six people occupying them, and they didn’t seem to match either: all just sitting, staring into space, as though they were really concentrating on drinking. To be fair, some of them looked like they might need to.

Steph headed over to a solitary man in the far corner. He looked old, although he was leaning over the table in front of him, staring into a thick tumbler of greasy booze, and so it was difficult to make out his face. From what I could see, his hair was blacky-grey and unwashed – two thirds of the way to being the wet, hard curls of tramp’s hair. The skin on the back of his hands was brown and knotted, but there was thin hair there, too, like swirls of copper wire. His shoulders were weak: stooped and trembling slightly. I got the impression that his drink was telling him a secret which was breaking his heart.

‘Jim.’

His reactions were so slow that Steph was putting the tray down on the table before he’d even managed to look up. Pink, glossy eyes told me that Jim Thornton was pissed as a wretch. The face around them was sad and drawn, telling tall tales of missed sleep, exposure and bad times. His skin was the colour of nicotine.

A stretched voice:

‘Hey Steph.’

‘Hey.’

She sat down opposite him and motioned for me to do the same.

Jim Thornton ended up staring somewhere in between us.

‘How a, how are…’ – his head nodded forwards a little with each attempt at speech – ‘how are dyo ouing?’

I stared at this paralytic monster in horror, but Steph didn’t miss a beat. She was already pouring us all a slug from the bottle she’d brought over.

‘I’m doing just fine, Jim. Just fine. And I have someone to see you.’

Thornton – who I think was as fundamentally shit-faced as I’d ever seen a man – turned to look at me, and missed. He had a slack smile, though, which gave me the impression he figured he’d scored a bullseye. It gave me the opportunity to notice another weird thing about the man: his teeth were absolutely perfect.

‘Hai.’

Steph passed me a half full tumbler of whisky. ‘He says hi.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said and then took a mouthful of booze, realising it would probably take sixty or more to level this particular playing field.

Thornton swung his head round to Steph, frowning.

‘Whizz this ga? Ta.’

He took the glass that Steph was offering him and attempted to put it down on the table.

‘He’s a man who wants to speak to you about some things.’

Clunk. The glass made an awkward touch-down, with a jolt of whisky escaping onto the table.

‘Sat right?’

‘Uh-huh.’ She looked at me after she’d finally poured herself a drink, and then passed me the piece of paper that I’d stolen from Hughes. ‘Why don’t you tell Jim what you want to talk to him about? Go on. Show him what you brought.’

I took the paper from her and passed it to Thornton. His hand was trembling as he picked it from me, and then he held it up for inspection.

‘Look at the one in the middle,’ I said.

Steph glared at me, and then looked back at him and said, ‘You know what that is, Jim?’

He shook his head violently.

‘Naw. Naw.’

Bullshit, I thought.

‘You sent it to a man named Walter Hughes.’ I leaned forward. His hands were now trembling even worse than before, and he was still shaking his head, as though trying to deny something fundamental. Like gravity.

‘You send them to him, and he pays you for them.’

‘Naw.’

Thornton closed his eyes.

‘Where do you get them from? Who sends these to you?’

‘Naw!’

It was a centimetre from being a shout, and he stood up. Upright, his body looked thinner and more whittled away than ever: like somebody who’d been in a coma.

‘Okay, Jim.’

Steph had stood up with him. She placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s okay. Don’t worry.’

‘Naw.’ He was whispering it again and again, and was starting to cry. His face barely seemed to have the strength to contort into tears. ‘Naw.’

‘It’s okay. Shhh.’

Steph kneaded his bony shoulder once and then took the piece of paper away from him.

‘Shhh. Don’t you worry now.’

His hands now free, they went automatically to his face.

‘Sit down, Jim.’ Her palm pressed him back into his seat. It was a barely controlled descent, and he just about managed it. ‘You enjoy your drink and forget all about this fella.’

She glared at me again.

‘Come with me.’

I took my glass and followed her over to a table in the far corner, where Jim Thornton wouldn’t be able to hear us.

‘Sit.’

She placed the paper in front of me.

‘You saw that, right?’

‘Saw what? Saw how he reacted?’

She nodded.

‘Yeah, I saw.’

Steph lit a cigarette and leaned back in her armchair.

‘That was for your benefit,’ she said. ‘You little shit. Not his. I wanted you to see what this thing can do to him, and why you need to leave him alone. You’ve seen the state of him. Doesn’t he look like he’s been through enough to you?’

I thought about it.

‘Yeah. He does.’

‘Well then.’ Steph looked exasperated, like she’d proved something obvious which I was still trying to deny. Ash fell on the table as she leaned forwards and jabbed a finger at me.

‘You and me – we’re gonna talk. And afterwards, you’re gonna leave well enough alone. Okay? Jim spends a lot of his time here, but not all his time. I don’t want you bothering the old man out on the street and breaking his heart. That’s one thing’s been broken ten times too many.’

‘Okay – we’ll talk, then. I need to find the man who wrote this.’

Steph glanced down at the paper with disgust.

‘You want that man, huh?’

‘Yes. You know where I can find him?’

She shook her head.

‘Well, does Jim know?’

‘Does Jim look like he knows much of anything?’ She shook her head again, pulling a face. ‘If he does, you ain’t